


The Literary Misadventures of Calliope Hayward

by the_lady1823



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, Bloomsbury Group RPF, Historical RPF, Original Work
Genre: 1910s, 20th Century, Aristocracy, Artists, Bars and Pubs, British, Broken Families, Camping, Childhood Friends, Classical Music, Comedy, Dancing, Edwardian Period, Embroidery, Enemies to Lovers, England (Country), F/M, Fainting, Female Protagonist, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Dress, Historical Figures, Historical References, Humor, Letters, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, London, Love/Hate, Maids, Marriage, Nature, Nobility, Orphans, Piano, Poetry, Protective Siblings, Reading, Romance, Servants, Siblings, Skinny Dipping, Slow Burn, Writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24126484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_lady1823/pseuds/the_lady1823
Summary: England, 1911. Calliope Hayward is a young aristocrat navigating her dreams to become a concert pianist, her sister's broken marriage, but most importantly- Rupert Brooke's terrible poems.
Kudos: 6





	1. An Utter Waste of My Mornings!

Those clusters of letters printed on a magazine page irritated me more than my weak tea, and the muffled sounds of my sister and her husband arguing at 8 o'clock in the morning for the third time in a row. Drawing a deep sigh, I closed my eyes and pushed away my breakfast. I had no appetite anyway. Half a second later, Alice came hurtling down the stairs, closely followed by a burst of oaths from Eustace, who still had bits of shaving foam plastered on his chin. Their boisterous exchange left my stream of conscience as I looked to the name at the top of the page.

  
‘Rupert Brooke’

  
I stared at it more.

  
‘Rupert Brooke.’  
  
After fixating my vision on that fine printed name, I realised I had forgot to breathe, and so I started up with a big gasp, aware of my surroundings again. Somewhere in the parlour, Eustace is probably begging forgiveness, imploring her that what she heard wasn’t true &c, &c. And Alice sits with crossed arms, sobbing, stammering, refusing to even glance at him. Then she will retire to her room, to change out of her dressing-gown, don a smart morning dress, and leave for her confidantes’ place to divulge all the things that had happened in the past month, and be consoled by light touches around the arm and draughts of port.  
Here it goes, I thought, as I heard the parlour door close with a click. All the while, that dastardly page was laid before me, its contents taunting me. Really, though, why? Why oh why oh why!? What is this Mr Brooke doing with his life? Lines after lines after lines of utter nonsense! Does he not know what a stanza is? The thing seemed to trudge on endlessly, down to the edges, into the margins, words upon words upon words with no meaning, squashed together and called a poem. Perhaps he is averse to writing sonnets. This was not the only poetic mishmash of his- oh, no! it appeared that it was an unfortunate style of his to compose in indistinguishable blocks, on besmirched love, from the several extracts I had procured. It sounded like either Mr Brooke’s lovers were extremely disagreeable, or that he was an extremely disagreeable lover. I fancied it was the latter, seeing how many of his poems were about the love ruined by _her _.__ Imagine being that poor woman! Not to be presumptuous, but Mr Brooke should sort out his problems first.  
Looking at the dense jumble of words, I shook my head and rose from the table. There was no real need to subject myself to this pain at all- it was not even my _own_ suggestion to read Mr Brooke’s poems. Picking up the magazine, I endeavoured to put away the poems, so that I may forget the many mornings I wasted.

Anyway, how did I come to this? I paused for a moment abreast the shelves, trying to recollect the particular words which compelled me to find out more of this certain Mr Brooke. Yes, yes; that was it; one late evening, reposing on the divan, chattering with my friends about whatever stupid thought that rose to our mind. Of course we got to talking about good-looking men, and so one of them cried- “Oh! But have you ever seen Rupert Brooke?” And all of them exclaimed, agreeing just how charming he was, while I sat aside, baffled. I must have made an offhand comment or other, because the next thing I know they were firing questions at me, especially for being such a dunce to not know who Mr Brooke was.

  
“Well, I-”

  
“You must be familiar with him, somehow! Everyone knows who he is! I swear, I swear! If I showed you a picture, you’d recognise him in an instant!”

  
“It’s-”

  
“No, no, Calliope, there must be a misunderstanding. He is everywhere! You can’t escape him! He moves through so many circles, you definitely would’ve seen him at some party!”  
“Of course she wouldn’t have seen him! She’s always hiding in the corner, and her face is either in a book or paper she’s writing on.”  
Disappointed that I had never seen or heard of this man in my life, they had recommended me to take to Mr Brooke’s poems, because I was ‘more literary anyway’ and if I couldn’t see how handsome he was, I could at least revel in his works.

Well, so much for his poetry. I gathered up the leaves, and finding an empty box, put them away in a distant cupboard. And I also rather desperately needed to tell Mrs Ackermann the housekeeper to just steep my tea for a little longer, because that alone would vastly improve my mornings. However, the changes pertaining to breakfast was interrupted by Eustace rearing his pompous head at the stair landing.  
“Don’t think that you can intervene,” he sneered. “She may be your sister, but she is my wife, and I dictate what happens with us. And pray, stop wearing Alice’s old clothes. You are supposed to be a genteel lady, not a slovenly fishwife.”

Alright, Eustace, as if you know anything about being a lady.

I passed him without any acknowledgement, and endeavoured to ignore him as much as possible, though now Alice began to occupy my convictions. She couldn’t possibly stay with him, yet there was little means for a divorce. For me- well, I had even less power. After all, to him, I was the unmarried parasite with no occupation for the foreseeable future (or do I?…) Such is life. Bah! Why do I always end up mulling over grave convictions? Putting subpar tea-brewing and marital issues aside, I headed for the piano. Alice was not coming back at least until the afternoon, and who cares when Eustace is home. With the whole house in silence, it was the ideal time to practice.  
Reader, you may now have thoughts like “Oh! Our heroine plays the piano! How delightful! All good heroines play the piano! Is she-” To be frank, I am going to refrain from elucidating in my musical experiences. You, dear reader, are obliged to make your own surmises, since I am not stopping my narrative in favour of some scales and chords. I can assure you that piano-playing is an integral part of my existence, but in an unorthodox and judgement-inciting manner.  
Nothing of significance betided while I was at the piano, as usual. There was hardly anything to distract me, save for Mrs Ackermann, who was loth to have me stay inside all day long, and brought my meals into the parlour, because “all that tinkering on the ivories makes you forget to eat!” Only until the clarion clicks of heels sounded on the floor did I cease to practise. At that moment, I scrambled onto the sofa and picked up a book. Alice stepped inside, indeed having paid the visit- a heaviness had set into her features, and her nerves were calmed by the liquor.

“Good afternoon Alice. How was the social call?” said I. She seated herself adjacent with a look of dejection.  
“Satisfactory, you know- the usual consolation. Miss J---- is as willing as ever to listen, but that is all they can do. There’s been worse. At the very least, Eustace is tolerable. And it might just be rumour after all- those pettish, gossiping maids love scandal, and the papers love to hold on to the scandals. The best course I can take is to stay and make it less overt. Soon enough, they’ll move on to another’s miseries. It’s always been like this.”  
I rested my chin on my palm in contemplation. Maybe if I contrived a devious plan…  
“Huh- could I help?”  
Alice pushed out a small smile. “You’ve always been good to me, Cal. But I’m afraid there’s nothing much to be done here.”

Dinner ran its usual tedious course. We sat with walls between us, Eustace muttering some remark on the meal ever and anon. I was waiting for the moment when the footman would finally lead us out of the dining-room, so that I could be free to do whatever I wanted to do. For the most part, I stared vacantly, anticipating the dismissal just like my schooling days. As Alice and Eustace were shown to the parlour, I padded behind them and took the side route to my room. They never notice my absences.  
Stepping across the threshold of my room, I immediately abandoned all my ladylike conduct. Quick! Quick! Get out of the evening gown! Off with the satin pumps! Those tiny pearl buttons on gloves are impossible to undo… No lady’s maid here, for the better. On with the high-necked shirtwaist and wide-cut skirt that ages me by five years. Here goes the boots with laces I have to spend an inordinate time loosening to put on. It’s been a quarter of an hour already! Dashing through the twisting hallways, down the stairwells, through the back door, I reached the gate which opened to the dirt lane. There was Mr Woods, resting on his cart. I gave him a cursory good-evening and rode onwards to the Hare and Tortoise.

  
A rising chatter could already be heard from outside of the entrance. The dim lamplight barely illuminated the sign, bearing the pub house’s fabled namesakes. I bounded inside, eager to do my evening duty. Joseph the tapster received me with a wave.  
“Evenin’, madam H. Start playin’ when you like. Fancy a drink?”  
Politely declining the drink (he always offered for the sake of courtesy), I went to the piano and struck up a rag. At last, all my worries were whisked away amidst syncopation and ephemeral conversations. Here it didn’t matter if I was cluelessly caught up in an affair of the most vexatious uncompliance, because to everyone there, I was merely a lady who made pleasant music. And they liked me enough to pay me with their spare change, too! What a catch! You may think me unscrupulous and base to earn money this way, and to that I ask- how would you like to live, knowing that your spendthrift family will eat up every cent left in the bank, and very likely end up in crippling debt in the near future? Of course I had to ensure my financial security, otherwise Eustace may be right, and I may indeed become a beggar on the streets, and he never deserves to be correct while I walk this earth.  
So I owe everything to a chance conversation with Mr Woods one morning, when Eustace sent me to B--- Farm to sort out a grievance, even though it was his job as a landlord, but I went anyway since it was a sunny day and I thought the fresh air would do me good, as it does after any conversation with Eustace. As expected, Mr Woods was standing with crossed arms and the sourest frown I had ever seen. However, he brightened up at the sight of me.  
“Hullo! I’m looking for Sir Ruscombe. Is he coming down or no? I’ve got to talk to him. I’m rather unhappy about how he is treating us tenants.”

  
I then informed him that I was his sister-in-law, and that he sent me down because he was engaged in taking his coffee and morning paper.

  
“Hmph! Fellow’s too _busy_ to do his job, is he? Well then, the next time he comes round, I’ll be twice as angry. What’s your name? You don’t do half bad for a baronet’s sister.”

I’m Calliope Hayward. And I rue the fact that I am related to Eustace.”

  
Mr Woods gave a chuckle.

  
“You know what, I like you a lot, Miss Hayward. You should come down here often. I ain’t got much to do in my day, ‘cept for a run to the Hare and Tortoise at night.”  
Curious at the mention of this establishment, I enquired further.

  
“What’s the Hare and Tortoise?”

  
“The public house nearby, which now that I think of it, do feel like it’s missing something. What’s it again… Right! The piano! Nobody’s played it since old Bertie left six years ago. It’s been sitting alone on the side, and every night I come hoping someone’s taken it up again. He could strike up a tune, he could.”

  
And that was how I became the pianist at the Hare & Tortoise, a position which I have held since last summer. I was much welcomed by the patrons, who had been sitting in such desolate silence that they persuaded me to come in nightly with pay, an offer I could not refuse.

  
Joseph, standing behind the bar, listened to me every night with admiration, and tonight was no different.  
“You play uncommonly well, madam. You oughta be on stage with that talent!” he praised.  
I responded that it was but leisure for me, and I would rather not restrict music to the elite who can afford concerts.

  
“Aye, how generous! We would not want to lose you either. But how’s about you play one of them concert pieces, just for the fun of it?”

  
Happily obliging, I performed Rachmaninoff’s Musical Moments. Though I concentrated on playing, I knew that every pair of eyes and ears in the public house was turned to me. It is a sense which musicians quickly acquire; that of feeling the attention of every being in the room so intensely which immensely bolsters one’s confidence, or gives one ceaseless bouts of shaking throughout one’s body. Fortunately, tonight, it was the former. There were no shaky hands to absolutely butcher the piece- thank the lord!  
Afterwards, I was showered with compliments on my utmost competency and flair. Mr Woods listened too, and he decided to raise a toast.

  
“For Miss H, who has brought the best music to us.”  
The patrons raised their glasses to me- oh, how flattering!

  
“No, no- I must thank you all for listening! The most important part of a performance is the audience’s enjoyment. There is nothing better than seeing how you are moved by the music.”  
A deafening applause and cheer shook the stone walls. It was almost unfathomable the sheer faith they had in me, as I surveyed the figures who now stood up in ovation- some I passed by daily without acknowledgement; some were mildly familiar; and some I had never seen before. Then, a new feeling rose up in my bosom- pride. Not the malicious pride, which as the saying goes, leads to the fall; but the kind that rises after ignoring one’s accomplishments for so long.

  
Perhaps I could be a pianist after all.


	2. Clara, Lady Stanfield

I vowed to accompany Alice as much as possible in the ensuing weeks. For any menial task; needlework, ordering the servants, or leisurely outing; to the milliners', seamstress and tailors', latest opera or ballet; I did with her, so that she may not have to think about Eustace. Before, I would have thought it exceedingly unnecessary, for my societal capacity was but a crude miniature figurine- I need not intrude if there were such great personages existing. But now her glimmering confidants have no bearing against her torments, so I must bear it for her. The bitter reality was that there was not a single soul in that circle who truly cared for her; just like my own, vapid and vacuous girls whose lot was to get married to a suitable suitor. And that lot was instilled upon Alice, far too young to realise the trap she would fall into. Yet I was willing to exert every effort to undo kismet’s wrongdoings- it was insurmountable to watch her waste away, to live under self-imposed constrictions because she didn’t know any better. I will help her; yes, I must- and perhaps I will also save myself from the same doom.  
Well, that became my habit. Every morning I arose in anticipation of the disparate, ceaseless escapade into wherever we desired- any place far away, far from the house, where our deepest miseries could not reach us. There was no telling of where we went; no clear itinerary; the thrill came in walking through side streets, alleys, courts; winding through narrow cobblestone pathways on a foggy day, protected by august houses of yore, who histories one could not but wonder at; down the crowded main streets, watching millions of faces, in wide flowery hats, polished black hats, grinning, frowning, calling after their children, arm in arm with lover, swiftly pass by; being reminded that we were but another set of souls in this fickle world. All routine was lost as we tread onward, disregarding coherent routes or transportation, going by our instincts, and departing when our curiosity was satisfied.  
One fine day as the sun shone its lovely beams onto the dew-dusted foliage and a glowing haze set over the sky, I found a secluded garden.  
“Alice! Alice! Look here!” I took her hand and ran under the weathered arch, onto a dirt-ridden stone path. The high wall around it suggested neglect, but the vegetation inside were thriving, spreading their stems and branches and petals over each other, in bottle green, pale blue, bloody crimson, hopeful yellow.  
“It is indeed delightful!” exclaimed Alice.  
In the centre was a sprawling pond filled to the edges with lily pads, some dainty like those in picture books, which made rugs for frogs, to gargantuan umbrellas wide enough for a person to stand on. And we came in just at the right time to see blooming water lilies float gracefully around the water, and ever and anon a dragonfly with iridescent tails landed onto the stamen, its wings twitching in glee at its sweet repose.  
“This is the place where we shall be happy forever. Do you feel it, too?” said I.  
“Yes! A place even dreams cannot conjure, a place none know but for us, is a place which will bestow utmost happiness. Then we must swear to keep this garden a secret, and to always return here.”  
As the sunbeams filtered through the glass panes above, it branched into a rainbow that fell onto Alice’s smile- a genuine smile, of mirth and joy- the happiest I had ever seen her in months.

✵

Our regular outings little affected Eustace’s daily proceedings. He stayed all morning with his coffee, and paid visits as usual. Now we seldom saw him except at departing, as he stuck his head through the door and asked us if we were ‘going out again.’ He always assumed such a gruff and sour countenance that we could not help laughing as we were out. Anyway, there was no reason for him to be concerned- were we not just women doing women things? Or he really did feel spiteful for our sudden autonomy.  
Sometimes, he made attempts to intervene and ‘set things right’ with Alice again. Of course, it was all vague assurances that he will be better, he’s changed, if she gave him time she’d find out how goodly he was, and other nonsense. And Alice- was I so proud!- would reject every one of those sorry pleas to stay together.  
“I said, I don’t want to! What don’t you understand about it?” I heard one evening.  
“If you would only spend more time with me, instead of wasting time with Calliope every day, you’d realise how much I care for you!” he cried.  
“No- I have said, I don’t want to stay with you! There is no comfort or security when I am with you. And I gain nothing, because I am forbidden to speak my mind for the sake of propriety! All I can be is an insipid ornament for you to drape in silk! For my entire life, I have been taught to abandon my own self for a suitable marriage- but now I have learnt to be satisfied with myself before I may be a satisfaction for others. I have been drained of vitality for eight years- my passions, hopes, intelligence- removed for me to become a pretty wife and nothing more. Here I say- I, and only I, am in charge of what I do. You cannot order me to please you because you are my husband. I have no obligation to stay if I am not content. Now do you understand?”  
Eustace was rendered speechless. In my head, I was ecstatic that Alice had finally stood up for herself. It was the beginning of a new beginning, if I should say so. Freedom may not be as distant as we imagined; here was proof that it was not a fleeting hope. Day by day, we shall go forwards, counting every small effort, until at last we look back and rejoice in our achievement.

✵

Our abundance and liberty of time also allowed us to revisit an old friend. Clara Augustine, as we knew her in our childhoods- now Lady Stanfield, a distinguished figure even in her youth. She was well known for her talents in writing and art, and had published several volumes (one of which I own.) It was rumoured her family had certain connections- their children are part of a literary set whose names elude me. Clara was encouraged to pursue her interests; selling her stories, performing in theatre, exhibiting her pictures. I was oft fascinated by her abilities, and thought it magic that she was so accomplished. I had endeavoured to learn from her and ultimately become accomplished myself. Unfortunately, once Alice was married, we had to bid adieu to Clara, as we moved to our current residence. And since Alice had to undertake so many duties as a wife, we were unable to see our friend.  
But Alice and I never forgot about her- and we seized the opportunity to visit her again. Through various acquaintances, we sent our card and a letter explaining our situation, and expressing our wishes to be friends again. A week had passed by without a reply, and we were afraid she did not receive them after all. One afternoon when Alice and I returned home, Mrs Ackerman came bursting in, and the butler stoically following behind, holding a silver tray.  
“Oh! At last they are back! Come, come, there is a letter for you both. I was looking for you all day long- you weren’t at home, but chauffeur was, and I said to him, “Where can Lady Ruscombe and Miss Hayward be without the car?”, and he said, “I have no idea, they went on foot”, and you know how much that sent me into a frenzy? Sir Ruscombe didn’t know, and I was running through the gardens, but the gardeners didn’t know either, and I had to run back into the quarters and fetch myself some brandy to ease my nerves! Out all day, and nobody knows where on earth you were! Thank god you are here now, or I would have thought you might have disappeared to Switzerland!”  
“Thank you, Mrs Ackermann. We shall read the letter at once,” Alice quickly replied.

The letter read as follows:

To Alice and Calliope,  
Allow me preface this by articulating my elation at this correspondence. It is greatly warming to see that two dear friends are eager to revisit my acquaintance, especially after a lengthy period of separation. I wholeheartedly agree that we should meet again, for though I was much reserved in the expression of my affections, I considered you and Calliope bosom companions. It was Calliope, I recall, who was rather fond of my work- my written pieces of fiction- and apparently herself grew a penchant for literature. Then I must also profess my humility and fulfillment for the inspiration I provided; and I am ever willing to expand her literary knowledge. Alice- I cannot begin to tell my regret at your marriage. Your sister is undertaking an arduous task for your constitution, and I applaud her efforts immensely. I have faith that Calliope will resolve the situation- and I understand that you may not want any more offers of aid; of which that notion holds all validity, and I which will respect.  
Your letter comes most auspiciously, for I am to hold a garden party in two weeks’ time. I am more than obliging to send invitations- it should arrive shortly after my reply. The company will be amiable, I assure you; mayhaps you may recognise some of the attending personages. (I suspect Calliope shall be thrilled when she meets them; they are exactly her sort of set.) Fret not on the conventions of introductions; the people are notorious for their rejection of the Victorian rules of propriety. Thus, come in whatever garb you believe is suitable, go a-toping, and arrive home with a dalliance.  
In the years of our separation, I devoted myself to engaging with the children of my late father’s acquaintances, whose general mien I have previously described. They are the infamous group, and exactly as you might have heard. My father was good friends with Sir Leslie Stephen- and the names of those eminent children I need not disclose. Therein, they have become my chief society. To passerby, their tastes can appear eccentric; and you too, may take a while to adjust. Withal, their company is pleasing (though you may not remember some nights…)  
But that is enough about my friends. Marriage aside, how do you and Calliope fare? Have you any adventurous prospects? In a day not unfathomably far, shall I see Calliope fulfill the spectacular lyrical distinction of her namesake?  
Henceforth, I will close off this letter with my gratitude and good wishes. Hesitate not to write if you have queries, and we will meet soon in gaiety.  
Yours &c &c.  
LADY STANFIELD

In the following fortnight, Alice and I were too full of excitement to do anything useful. The tables were turned and we spent the majority of our days inside the house, poring over pictures and poets and books late into the night. Eustace rolled his eyes when I darted to and fro bringing those Important Materials to Alice, and Mrs Ackermann was exceedingly baffled at our exploits again.

“...past suitors...” I procured some blurry images and clippings, adding to the ever-growing pile on Alice’s chamber floor. We sat in our nightgowns with cups of tea and a candlestick by our side, making sure to speak in whispers.  
“...who went to Trinity College… ten members...”  
“...died of typhoid… got married…”  
“... the hoax… ambassadors… some of them even caned…”  
“...flirtations and proposals galore…”  
“..a large kin indeed… several half-siblings…”

  
On and on the photographs and intrigues carried us through the nights, though the massive entanglements still posed as indiscernible as ever. It was one of those circles.  
Nevertheless, Alice and I were overcome with immense glee on Saturday afternoon (hysteria?) during our preparation for the party. It wasn’t so much the dress that concerned us- we could show up in a bundle of satin for all they cared- but rather for the personages we were to meet. How should we be introduced? How unconventional were they? Could I walk up and sling my arm around the shoulder and proclaim “Aye, ‘tis a fine evening, isn’t it, my good friend?” and- wait, they’ll judge me for that- no- they would not, Lady Stanfield said they would not, but how could I trust the word of a third party- hmm, what if I just stood politely and waited for one of them to come to me- no, that wouldn’t work either because I usually ended up alone in the corner- yes, but that was at a different place with different people, and this place has good people apparently- alright but I haven’t met any of these people, what if they are like the people I met before- stop! Stop! Stop with this befuddlery! I say for the thousandth time.  
Reader, perhaps ignore my previous ramblings.

We set out at half-past five on a fair June dusk, ready for whatever mumbo-jumbo we would get into. And most likely drink. Lots of drink. The wind blew our hair into frizzled mounds, but all the better, because it’s all romantic and artistic, and visionary, I guess? Then the motorcar stopped in front of a wrought iron gate, and I had to resume coherent thinking as much as I could. But that didn’t last for long, because then Lady Stanfield welcomed us at the door, and I remembered that I was going to be thrust into a garden full of strangers.

  
“Good evening! How do you fare?” Lady Stanfield beamed. “I do say that Calliope is positively flushing! It becomes her so; and please do not fret over the guests- they take a liking to mellow conversation.”  
I looked in a mirror, and sure it was, my cheeks were a vibrant red. That carried several meanings. And quiet proceedings are far worse than a grand ball, for it is obvious when one isn’t actively participating. I never participated in anything, to be frank.

  
Alice and I were led out into a lush green garden, wherein some exotic writers and artists were blooming. Just as Lady Stanfield said, there was little abuzz except softly spoken words amongst a few men and women.  
Alice beckoned to me. “There- I do believe it is her. You should talk to her.” At the farthest wall, there was a lone woman. I could not see her face clearly, but she did seem familiar. My eyes moved to the ground and I shuffled my feet.

  
“Oh, Calliope, take the initiative and do start a conversation; the society here is very reserved, so even if they protest, they will not openly express it.”

  
“We..ell… fine… I’ll go.” I scrunched into a grimace and half-stamped across the path. Alice may take the exception to forced socialisation, but only by a thread.

  
Approaching the woman, she cautiously turned around, and seeing I was new, raised her eyebrows. She held an astute countenance, especially from the Greek nose and deep set lids which gave her an air of inquisitiveness, as if she was constantly asking “Who are you?” in the metaphysical manner. However, my presence did taint her otherwise composed expression. At once, she drew back and stood dead still. Her mouth straightened into a tentative purse, and she inclined her head away from me.

  
One who is socially unaffected would have recognised her shyness, and carried on regularly; however, I being afflicted with what seemed to be a great bout of invisible pins stabbing me, instantly panicked and all premeditated greetings were discarded from my conscience. Realising I had come nearly elbow’s length away from her without speaking, garbled out a vaguely audible introduction.

  
“Hello I am- my name is C-Miss Calliope Hayward, w-whatisyourname?”

  
She blinked. “I am Virginia Stephen.”

  
“A-ha, yes, a pleasure to meet you, Virginia?”

  
Here I started to profusely sweat.

  
“I greatly admire the group’s idiosyncratic approach to artistic pursuits…”

  
“Then I take your admiration with great humility. Here comes my good friend Katherine- Katherine Cox. Meet Calliope Hayward.”

  
She received me with a warm smile, but that was all I saw in my peripheral vision as I looked around for excuses to leave.

  
Spying the punch bowl at the newly set-up refreshments table, I quitted my acquaintances and ran. I gulped down several cups of the beverage, hoping there was enough alcohol to liberate my consciousness. It in fact worked, for Lady Stanfield was a mere blur and echo as she approached me and asked me what I was doing. There she soothingly laid her hand upon my elbow, at which I let out a feeble wail of despair. Her mouth moved, but there seemed to be no coherent sentences. Whatever I was doing, her gestures and responses failed to reach my comprehension.

  
“...they… don’t… like… me…! Very very very bad! Bad! I can’t talk! But Clara… you are a very nice friend… No… you would never be mean to me, Clara, would you?”  
She nodded, drawing me into her arms and placing me down onto a seat. Another indistinct stream of words shot through my ears, and she turned away, walking to the opposite end of the garden. Here I began to groan and sob at this most indecorous betrayal, in hopes of catching someone’s attention, except nobody stayed back around the porch because they were engaged in intellectual discussions amongst the picturesque greenery. I continued sobbing for a fair while, until Lady Stanfield returned with Alice. The sight of me immediately prompted Alice to assume a doting position, as she hurried towards me with her handkerchief out, drying my tears. Still my responsiveness was massively inhibited, so I sat by like a lump of tangled yarn, no clue why my sister was moving with such haste and why she wrapped a sleek quilt around me (it was my cloak.) I was vexed, though, at her pinching my face and coming up close to me, and trying to implore me to drink a glass of water. She was whispering something and smoothing my hairdo.

“Shh- they won’t hurt you, I promise! And you were rather brave for introducing yourself without any help. You left before they could ask you to join their Thursday evenings and other gatherings; don’t worry, for they relayed it all to me. They were delighted to hear of your talents! And they very much desire to become familiars with you. Now, let’s go home. You are drifting off to sleep from intoxication. We’ll be comfortably in bed in half an hour.”

I was practically carried into the backseat, Alice bestowing yet another layer around my shoulders. The rest of the night passed through my perceptions in barely linear renderings. Rumbling and rattling. Darkness, a single window illuminated, there’s rustling coming from those trees… Too exposed! Shadows move everywhere, what can I trust? Click, click, click, which is definitely me, and I hope it’s just me. Flickering in the hallway means hiding-spots, now it is too quiet. Up the stairs, up a mountain, I am too slow, I shall succumb. The door! The door! Behind the door is where I am truly safe! Hands undo the burdens upon my shoulders and head. Quick! The bed! Swathed soft and snug, nothing can reach me. Finally, I may rest in soft slumber.


	3. Meeting a Poet

The cart rumbled merrily along the dirt track, stirring a slight breeze that punched away the sweltering summer air. Slivers of sanguine orange and satiny blue lingered in the darkening vault. Our waking minutes are longer, in festivity for the fortunate, labour for the others. No movement stirred from the trees, whose winged tenants had already left for agreeable habitations. Patched yellowed grass denied the retreating light, desperate to gain recompense for Helios’ overzealous chariot. Crossing the bridge, the stream underneath no longer bubbled. Bursts of dust issued from the driving and relentlessly blowing into unsuspecting faces.

“We’ve missed you very much. Of course I won’t press you to come if you’ve not the time, but the place feels empty sometimes without the music.” Mr Woods suddenly remarked.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I realised, pawing the dust out of my eyes. Why did I not bring a veil, I had my hat on... “I have been selfish with my occupations. My recent partakings, while captivating, has perverted my senses to only be concerned with my own small circle. All that time I hadn’t considered how much the patrons looked forward to my playing. Please forgive my absence.”

“It’s all right, Miss H. We know you’re lots to attend to. You can come in whenever you like.”

I dangled my feet over the edge. Mr Woods _was_ being courteous, but there definitely was a hint of disappointment in his voice. Despite my want of attendance, I had been practicing and playing piano. More than I had been before, as it became routine, of late, for Alice and I to act out comic tableaux set to beloved pieces. Reader- imagine- it is past bedtime, and you hear the faint reverberation of an etude ringing through the hallway. You gingerly turn the door handle to see two women flailing and posing to Chopin. You recoil in confusion and judgement. Really, you should not judge- try it out sometime. It is rather amusing.

Anyway, my efforts put into these late-night tableaux sessions should have been for the Hare & Tortoise. A pang of guilt rose into my bosom, and I almost jumped off the cart. Not today, not today. Reader, I hope your work may be done more wisely. Do not follow me for guidance, for you are sure to plunge into regrettable exploits. And don’t ever let anyone judge you and your sibling’s terribly droll choreography to virtuostic pieces.

My presence was astounding. Regulars, newcomers, servants, everyone turned to watch my entrance. A line formed around my seat, trying to ask questions and make requests. “You’ve been away for a month!” they cried. Wait- impossible! An entire month! I must be the biggest dunce in the world to forget about my main source of income for a full month. However, the mass around me ironically prevented me from getting up and playing music. For a claustrophobic, boisterous, sweaty minute, appendages and whatnot pressed me to stay on the stool. It wasn’t until Joseph, coming out of the back room, bellowed for everyone to stop crowding around the counter, rattling the glasses, that they dispersed. So did he finally see me again after a month, plastered with perspiration, pale and shaking.

“Long time no see, madam H! We’ve been thinking ‘bout you. Take it easy, then?” he chuckled at the sight of me.

“If you will, Joseph, I do have a reason for my absence.”

“Go on, then.” he said.

I related everything pertaining to Alice.

“I am very sorry to hear about your sister.” A grave mien invaded his wonted twinkle and charm, dragging down the corners of his visage into Stygian depths that so pained me to see. “It’s strange, isn’t it, how you can never guess what’s happening with a person? One thing and everything about ‘em changes. But you have my trust that everything you tell me will be right with me. I’ll always be here to talk if you need it, madam H.”

“Thank you Joseph- I know I can confide in you. Howbeit, there is a more complex issue at hand. We can only sustain our circumstances for so long; eventually we must leave G--- Place. Sir Ruscombe will certainly uncover our attempts if we did it by ourselves. So I am asking you, Joseph, if you are able to aid us in finding a place for us. It’s our one chance for freedom.”

“Aye, ‘course I am happy to help a friend. And no frets about finding places many a year ago, I was the same too. Scared to death, I was, of having to spend a night in the cold streets. But I pulled together all I had left in my purse- and here I am, with the Hare & Tortoise. Aye, I am sure to help you, madam H,” he pressed my hand. 

✵

“Cal, dear, I know you do get quite nervous around strangers, but if you constantly cling to me, you won’t conquer the fear.” Alice sat placidly on the sofa, embroidering a panel. Beams of luminous sun fell around the room, casting its intense glow into my eyes. The windows were thrown open, and the blithe chirp of birdsong emanated from the verdant meadows yonder. Her white lace dress was shaded even brighter, a shade to set the winter snow envious.

“Dear, don’t look so dejected at the suggestion. Of course I still want to be with you- it’s merely that you’ve made such a habit of staying within your bounds of society, that it’s become disagreeable. Now, Thursday evening you won’t be alone, for Lady Stanfield is going too. She will definitely keep you company if you do indeed find the set deplorable- which I am sure they aren’t. Oh, I will be absolutely fine by myself, Cal. I do appreciate your efforts, but we must learn when to keep with others, and when to keep to ourselves. I believe this is an opportunity for you to grow.” She looked up from the hoop and gave a comforting grin, and then resumed.

Ever since the _episode_ at Lady Stanfield’s party, Alice had been subtly encouraging my independence. But I suppose today, being a Wednesday, she had to be blunt. She had fixed Thursday for my going-out, and told Mrs Ackermann, the chauffeur, and the maid the plan for the evening, with special emphasis that I was going alone. I really don’t understand all the fuss- I mean, it was the one time at that one party that I embarrassed myself. There was no need to always remind me to ‘be more social’ as they say. It’s not like I will do something very, very weird, and get into a very, very bizarre situation, right?

Come Thursday evening, I tottered down to the motor-car and slumped down in the backseat which now seemed like an empty theatre waiting for its audience. Did Chauffeur just have a chuckle at me? Bad man! Fire him immediately. In the distance, there was a pink blob waving through the window, and a mustachioed automaton. I bid them a silent adieu, and then crossed my arms tightly and curled up into a ball. Sure, Lady Stanfield may be there, but that doesn’t stop my anxieties! Nobody can trick my obstinate brain into calmness! My brain turns into a sludge at the notion of social interaction, and that’s that. It was with this resolution that I entered into Fitzroy Square.

Already I arrived in woeful timing, as the study teemed with clusters of hushed conversation and the occasional flicker of a lighted match. Bracing myself, I dived into the crowd and began searching for Lady Stanfield. Meandering through the room, of which a strong stench of smoke, whisky, and cocoa lingered in its perimetres, I sighted her beside an occupied writing-table. Silently and unintrusively as possible, I took a chair and sat with Lady Stanfield.

“Hello there, Calliope. I see you’ve done a courageous feat and came alone tonight.”

I forced out a shaky laugh. “Ah, yes- Alice did implore me to try going out by myself for once. Do you think she is right in thinking it will help me?”

“Of course, you little goose! I say, these nights make quite the memories. In fact, here’s the hostess herself.”

The sitter at the writing-table swiveled to reveal none other than Virginia Stephen.

“A pleasure to see you again- and I trust that tonight I will have the opportunity to become properly intimate with you? She said with a mischievous gleam. “Where did you leave off when I last saw you; I remember- you (or, more accurately, your sister) articulated your love of art and literature. Tell me then, what do you read or view?”

“Actually, I was convinced by my friends to read the poems of this poet… Mr Brooke, I think he’s called. I don’t really like his style, though. Lots of them are too much of a hodgepodge to understand thoroughly.”

A round of snickers reverberated across the room. Virginia hid her amusement behind her hand.

“I’m sorry- but we hadn’t expected to hear _him_ out of all the literary men in the world- nay, even in England! Lytton, Maynard, please elaborate to Calliope over here.”

Two men were beckoned over. One was the possessor of the bushiest beard I ever beheld and had a tall lanky figure. The other was a head shorter, and his prominent brows formed neat, sloping lines to either temple. Both were dressed in the loosely fitted, rustic garb- the uniform of these literary peoples. The first’s mien was built for joviality; he smiled not with his mouth, but with all his features. The second stood coolly. 

“Hullo, I’m Lytton Strachey. What a shame that you had departed early from the party! I considered talking to you, but Clara then told me you went home. At least you are here now. That’s my friend Maynard Keynes. Well, well, well- don’t censure Mr Brooke like that! We know him; our brothers are in his circle.”

“Yes, yes, indeed- Lytton’s brother James, and my Geoffrey.”

“And how come you reprove Mr Brooke’s poetry so much, without knowing him first? You ought to meet the man- I assure you, you will come to like him.”

Virginia and Lady Stanfield giggled at his suggestion.

“Of course… Calliope will certainly change her mind once she sees Mr Brooke.” said Lady Stanfield. “He’s… captivating!” Virginia chimed in. “ _Daring_ , if I may add!” They glanced at each other, then at Lytton and Maynard; there was a secret communication between the group, who nodded in agreement.

“I believe that his set will be much more suitable for Calliope. You are definitely most welcome to join our Thursday evenings, but the… leisures… of his definitely have that vitality you seem to be searching for. What say you- Maynard, Virginia, Clara? Whisk Calliope down to Cambridge, and when she comes back she can tell us everything about Mr Brooke.” said Lytton.

The three assented. Virginia then recalled an important detail, directed at me. “I understand being amongst strangers makes you apprehensive; but Katherine- who you briefly met- will be down at Cambridge. I’ll write to her, and let her know you’ll be joining them. Would you like her to join you at the station?”

“Oh, you are too kind! Yes- I shall be glad to have Katherine with me. And please tell her I am very sorry for abandoning the conversation.”

“Then the excursion is sorted. Fancy some buns?”

✵

So there I sat, squashed between two liberally scented old ladies, clutching my satchel of books and sheet music close to my bosom. The scenery without blurred across the window like the pictures on a verdant carousel ride. No conversation was present in the room, but there was the ever-present rumble of the engine, and the occasional passenger dozing off on his shoulder. There were knitting needles, newspapers, log-books, prim boxes tied with ribbon, tightly clenched gloves resting on a knee, and noses stuck to the window panes. And I? Reader, surely you know my follies well enough. I had no occupations, and thus cycled between far-fetched surmises (a la Holmes) of the personalities in the carriage, and checking that my belongings weren’t robbed every five minutes. May I further add that I am just as clueless as you for our destination. On receiving Virginia’s letter, I cut out a piece containing the directions, for there were too many convoluted place names and routes, that I thought it better to just show whoever controlled the transportation than wrack my mind trying to figure out my way. Very indolent of me, I admit. 

The screeching halt nearly gave me a heart attack, for I was deep in a daydream. As promised, there was Katherine waiting for me at the platform, offering her arm. 

Upon taking her arm, I could observe my companion more clearly. A pair of silver pince-nez balanced atop of her subtly sloping nose bridge; a wise choice, for her ears were curtained with twists that secured into a looping coiffure at the centre of her head, fastened by an ornamental clasp. A frilly white peter pan collar adorned her gauzy dress. Though a little stout, I found her general demeanor to be rather sweet and open.

“Good morning, Calliope! Ready to drive down to the party?”

Here goes another blur of green, though Katherine (or “Ka”, as she insisted I call her) did kindly point out some points of interest here and there. It was the cart ride to the Hare & Tortoise, but with a more efficient mode of transport and a talkative companion. Before long, we arrived at the destination; someone-or-others’ residence, (I never quite remembered it in the muddle) but instead of convening inside the house, we convened on the grassy field instead. Several indistinct figures in the distance reclined on the hill yonder. Today, the sun was generous, leaving nothing in this earthly domain untouched by light. Summer blooms dotted the grass in white, yellow, and violet. The clouds vacated the vault above, creating a clear divide on the horizon. A zephyr relieved the harsh rays, stirring the flowers in a dainty dance. Ka led me to the groups’ spot, ever and anon holding me after I lost balance stepping through the slopes. Skirts billowing in the wind, treading across a lush hill in the midday sun- perhaps this scene will be rendered in grey-scale for the people of a century later to marvel at and say “Ah, so this was the life they had…”

We took refuge on the peak of the hill, Ka making a soft-spoken intimation of my arrival to the adjacent members. There were men and women alike; I did not recognise them. I observed that the group was split into sub-groups, presumably with their “favourites.” They turned to me in aloof acknowledgment, and then turned back to whatever they were reading. Ka assured that they would come to like me. Thenceforth, we read and discussed our books in detachment. It wasn’t before long that Ka asked what else was in my satchel, pointing to the crumpled folder.

“That’s my sheet music, which I know you are thinking me strange to bring to a reading party. My habit is to carry music whenever I travel to an unfamiliar place. It is proven that there will be inexplicable moments where I must retreat from conversation, and into playing the piano. Notwithstanding, I definitely do not detest your company, Ka.”

“Not at all! I can tell that you are liking me. That’s quite a bright idea- and in case you do feel the need to go, just say. I should hear you play someday!” said she.

I had laid out my volumes onto the ground, some on my lap, flicking the pages to show Ka a passage or poem that I fancied. Hereupon, I noticed that a crucial bundle was missing- the poetry of Mr Brooke! How could I bring the Two Part Inventions, but forget to bring the poetry? What an astronomical fool, the basest simpleton, an absolute imbecile am I! That’s why there was no space left in the bag! I had intended to discuss the poems with Ka, and thus meet Mr Brooke on the grounds of his literary work. Therein, I did predict the coolness of the set, but not my ineptitude. You argue- “Wouldn’t the mention of Mr Brooke be enough?” My answer is a yes and no; the topic is on the poet, but my decency forbids me to ever speak of the reasons I heard of him in the first place. And Ka would be appreciative, too. So I suppressed the desperate pleas in my mind to resolve my motivations, continuing in the facade of a temporary solution.

The span of this affectation met its tedious end when I felt the urge to get up and abandon reading for good. Although Ka explicitly stated my permission to take a break, there was a festering limb of my conscience that denied any kindness that was directed towards myself. A million machinations swarmed, claiming the next best course of action. I simply disregarded them. Yet those machinations indeed carried an intelligence of their own, for my recompense was the complete loss of reality. Slowly, the words on the pages ceased to translate into my comprehension, my screaming convictions invading the internal voices. “Get up! Get up!” they cried. I asked- “For what reason do you bid me to get up?” Their reply was “I don’t know! But stop whatever you’re doing because I do not like that!” And I had no choice but to accept the impudence of my inner convictions. Perchance I am too harsh- they speak for a reason. They know my desires, and they urge me to follow it. They do not bend to society’s restrictions, because they are aware that society is ever forbidding. They are my mind’s servants, and however offensive their suggestions, they serve for the better of me. Drawing my breath, I resolved to leave.

“May… I beg your pardon to leave? I’m afraid I must-- you do understand?”

“Of course! Take the back door; it’s closer. I reckon there’s no-one inside to intrude on you.” 

There I went, sprinting across the lush grass, coming up the hill to see the outlines of a grand old manor. It sprawled its spacious wings and hallways over the land in unabashed glory. The latticed windows opened their ageing eyes in curiosity, while the foreboding stones demanded who should visit at such an inopportune occassion. I padded to the battered door; not a creature stirred. This want of indication at existing life increased my unease in entering the house. Once more, I looked around- nothing- not even some gardeners, or a post-boy, were on the grounds. With great hesitation, I turned the handle and stepped inside.

Notwithstanding the season, a draught coursed through the expansive hallway. Evidently, it was an ancestral home- ornate damask wallpapers, pictures of nobility, mahogany furniture, parquet flooring. Ka told me to keep walking until I met the archway, which led into the drawing-room. The click of my shoes rang relentlessly behind, abreast, in front of me, repeating in plain mockery, mocking the tread of a stalker. I walked faster, hoping to escape the phantoms.

Patiently awaiting my entrance was the haven- the drawing-room. The room knew its purpose. It kept its marvellous layout as a welcome to the new arrivals; to pledge constancy and safety to those that entered its domain. And today it gleaned my presence instantly, for it removed its scent of visiting-calls and dramatic happenings; in a second, I was at the piano. I paid no heed to the rest of the room; I was happy to have a piano.

At last, I could lay my sheets onto the stand and begin to play. Like a good musician always does, I first played some scales, gliding my fingers over the keys-- and--

“HI! HI! IS SOMEONE HERE?” an unidentified voice hollered.

I started. Pivoting to the edge of the stool, I beheld a man holding a pencil and notebook. He appeared to be not more than three years my senior. Except he had committed the most heinous misdoing- not wearing a waistcoat! There he stood, arms akimbo, shamelessly presenting his bare shirt-front. It puffed out into soft folds, not unlike the style Alice wore in her youth. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it a vision. No, I saw it correctly; he was _not wearing a waistcoat_! How was this possible? Never in my life did I expect to see a man of my station lacking a vital piece of clothing! He was in possession of everything, everything but the waistcoat! Might he have forgotten to put in on? Psha! That is impossible. Such an integral garment does not elude one’s mind. Did he lose it? A trifle more probable, but in what circumstance can one lose a waistcoat? Maybe there is a waistcoat-goblin, much like a stocking-goblin, on the loose, and it was inauspiciously lost? Maybe he fell asleep and a devious friend thought it funny to nick his waistcoat? Maybe he took it off, owing to the weather, and misplaced it? Then why in the world did he not wear a waistcoat? Unfathomable! Unimaginable! Unprecedented and undesirable! There was nothing to say but--

“Why, sir! You’ve- you’ve- you’ve lost your waistcoat!”

He was puzzled. “I’m sorry? What-”

“Your waistcoat! It’s missing!”

He cocked his head to the side. “Look, I don’t- I left my notes in here, and I was about to go when I heard you play the piano. You scared me!”

“Oh… well, I apologise for the disturbance. I hope you can find your lost waistcoat.”

“Calliope! There you are! The group’s about to have morning tea.” It was Ka!

We both faced her, in a plea for answers.

“I see you’ve met Rupert.” she said to me. She strode over to his side, and he whispered some things to her. She took his hand.

“Wait! _Rupert_ ?” I cried. “Is he _the_ Rupert Brooke I have been reading? The poet, Rupert Brooke?!”

“Yes, I am.” he said indifferently.

“Ka! Why didn’t you tell me that _he_ was the poet?”

“I didn’t know you wanted to meet him! If you told me, I could’ve introduced you to him.” 

I froze, mouth agape, unable to process the whole ordeal. No way this was Mr Brooke!

A wave of hair that disagreed whether it was coloured ginger, brown, or blond, swooped majestically around his temple. He was about six feet tall, with a lean build. While the tousled hair, puffy crêpe-de-chine tie, soft shirt, and the drooping posture would have conveyed a sense of slovenliness in others, for Rupert it emanated youthful charm. Here were his features, his person presented tangibly, unmistakably real; yet I regressed back into the image of him constructed in my mind. The poetry had invoked, for me, an entity comprised of spontaneous features. It shifted from young to old, joyful to melancholy, timid to bold, fair to haggard; there was no defining appearance, for I could not define him. Now standing before me, his beauty was overcome by the perverse shadows of my opinion. My preconceived dislike of his work prevented me to admit admiration of his person. Moreover, the failure on my part to engage in an adequate introduction to him broke any chance of friendly acquaintance. We had been plunged onto a bridge suspended in mid-air; one wrong move and one of us will fall into the abyss.

“Rupert, Calliope? Would you both like to come to tea?” 


	4. I Partake in Intellectual Conversation

Caught amidst an argument, I was forced to sit and endure. Eustace and Alice flanked the opposite ends of the sofa. Aggression radiated between them, I being the unlucky one to catch the burning fumes. They were symmetrical in position and countenance, crossing their arms and turning their noses up. Implicitly, I was assumed the duty of a mediator- which they knew better to do, because it never ended well. In this circumstance, the conflict was rendered even worse, due to its pertaining to myself and Alice. Eustace began:

“This household has deteriorated beyond belief! Why have you women taken up to so much going-out; I would’ve accepted, if it were not for the secrecy! Almost every day you leave in the morning, on foot, no less, without any indication of your whereabouts. Even Mrs Ackermann came asking me where you both were- have you no concept for reputation? To be respectable women rambling around London, unsupervised by a male chaperone, is the stuff of demise. And I thought it embarrassing enough, until you went to that party, and came back with the idea of letting Calliope out alone, to some blasted reading set! What has become of you two? Do you not remember that I am your guardian and protector for a reason? I cannot allow you to continue these reprobate exploits!”

I rebutted. “We haven’t participated in any unrespectable activities, Eustace. Have you no faith in our abilities of compunction? We both can discern what is appropriate to do and what is not. So far, we have been on promenades, and non-illicit parties of intellectuals, where we met the Stephens and the Stracheys. And I am not going back to that ‘reading set.’ I don’t like it there.”

In the last two sentences, Eustace’s hostility ceased. “Did you say- the Stephens, and Stracheys?” he said wistfully. “...I haven’t heard those names in years. We were Apostles in our college days. I never saw them again after graduation. I couldn’t forgive myself for that when Thoby died.” Suddenly, an air of solemnity washed over him. “I take back what I said. I was too harsh. You were full of reason, and I blatantly ignored it. Please, from now on, be frank to me about what you’re doing. I should never have judged you.” Tears were forming on the bottom of his eyes, but he swiftly wiped them away.

“That is all I have to say. Goodnight.”

✵

Plate of bread on the side table, cigarette smoke whirling its grey tendrils, they eagerly awaited the account of my expedition. I crumpled the folds of my dress tighter in my grip. Should I tell them the truth? I hated to dampen their spirits. Chatter was abuzz- they took quick glances at me, always followed by a smirk. Given the two sets’ close connection, whether I hazarded a lie or not, my account was bound to create rifts anyway. Coming to this half-hearted resolution, I abided by their requests.

“Yes, yes, I will tell you all about my trip to Cambridge now.” I sighed. The group drew in nearer. “Contrary to your expectations, my meeting with Rupert was far from having explosive passion. In fact, I didn’t see him until halfway through the party, and it was by accident too, that I met him. Few words passed- just ‘hello’ and ‘my name is...’, you know- that sort. I didn’t sit with him during tea either. But I was most jarred by the discrepancy between his person and his poetry. I had imagined someone to have written those poems… but not  _ him _ . I don’t think I’d like to meet him again.” Technically, I had spoken the truth- merely to a lesser degree. The group, however, picked up on my compromised accuracy, and poured forth their queries.

“I thought you went there for the purpose of meeting Rupert? Why did you act so blase toward him?” said one.

“Is it not unfair to compare his person and his poetry? Can you not praise both for what they are?”

“Why should you come to the conclusion of an unfixable acquaintance after one incident?”

Then came the declamations that I simply did not know him yet; that I was uninvolved, so the plan had failed; that I did this wrong, did that &c, &c. A quality of disbelief and indignation arose from them, each listing another ‘fact’ about Rupert that disproved my account, growing louder and more chaotic by the second. Virginia held out her arms to halt the crowd. 

“Stop! We’ve exhausted Calliope. Leave her be- she cannot answer to everything you say.”

Immediately they dispersed, scattering specks of ashes by their feet. The regular humdrum of artistic discussion appeared once more.

“Let’s not bring Rupert up again. It is far too controversial, and unrelated to the original intentions of these parties.” she said. “Though, I am at times part of his set. Given our mutual relation to him, I think it is better to keep it between us.”

I agreed.

“Here I should say that I share their sentiments regarding your prejudices against Rupert. They’re right in saying that your decision was somewhat rash. Remember how we started? You thought you had lost my esteem forever. I was only happy to further our friendship. You are too quick to analyse every action to reach a conclusion that reflects the environment of a beginning. Enact distance only when you require it. Security and vulnerability are detrimental in their extremes. The right choice at the right time will save you from breaking.”

She imparted her wisdom with a gaze of divine intensity, as if she prophesied the life that I will ensue. There was a hint of foreboding- a sense that some malignant force will rend us asunder.


	5. Invitations

“I wish we could find that secret garden again…” Alice murmured. She plucked a daisy from the ground and twirled it in her fingers. A spread of used dishes and cups were scattered on the picnic blanket. We laid under the branch of an ancient elm tree in a forgotten quarter of the garden. “What am I to compare fair Nature’s realm? It is just as lovely here.” she brightened, taking a bundle of daisies and working them into an interlooped chain. I had brought a volume of Byron, now covered to the margins with annotations. Ever and anon, a curious butterfly or bird would fly towards us, inspecting the leftover crumbs, my yellowed pages, Alice’s picture hat, and then flutter away to report these peculiar tidings to their kin. I languidly supined myself to catch the waning late afternoon light, relaxing the focus in my vision and letting the world merge into a hazy bubble. I could drift off to sleep right here… It was nary a few minutes before the swish-swish of the overgrown lawn indicated a visitor. Climbing upright and shaking my head, I saw it was Mrs Ackermann coming to us with a letter. She treaded, or rather fought, clumsily through the tall undergrowth, pulling the pesky stalks hither and thither.

Panting, she bent over to give us the letter. “The gardener ought to tidy up this corner. My, oh my, stamping over those weeds was painstaking, all for this one letter! It’s addressed to Miss Calliope.”

Turning it over, the sender revealed to be Ka. My heartbeat sped. How impertinent of me! Ever since the reading party, I had not communicated to her; partly out of fear, but mostly out of sheer awkwardness. I could not muster up the strength to pen her an ultimately disappointing letter. She must be wondering where I have been! Tearing the wax seal, I opened its contents:

My dearest Calliope,

I have missed you an awful lot! After the visit, I waited for a couple of days for a reply. Has something happened? The next party I went to seemed so dull without you by my side. And the set has caught onto pondering your whereabouts too! Bryn & Noel often repeat, “Who is the fabled girl that came here to play the piano, and never return?” We think about you every day. There’s been plans for a camping trip going on, but I suspect your absence has slowed it down. It’s planned to be late this month down in Devon. We are all wondering whether you would like to come. Everyone will be there, and we will have a jolly good time. We don’t want you to miss out. Please let us know if you can come.

Your worrying friend,

Ka.

P.S. Rupert tells me to ask for your forgiveness. Did a row occur in the drawing-room that day? If so, I am very sorry to hear how you started. I’m sure it can be made up.

“From your friend?” asked Alice.

“Yes- she writes to ask if I can join her on a camp.”

“How exciting! Let’s pack up now and go back inside, so you can reply. Is it one of the people we saw at Lady Stanfields’ place? And you believed the unpleasant introduction to leave a lasting affect! There, you are making friends as quick as a bee. Soon the servants and I will be so lonely with you going out on a camping trip.”

“Do you think Eustace will allow me to go?”

Alice pursed her lips.

“We’ll have to see- but if we explain with good intentions, he won’t object. He knows it would be unjust to bar you from seeing your friend.”

“Then I have no qualms about it,” I said, picking up the wicker basket.

Comically overladen with stuff (this should be practice!), we tottered into the house in the purple dusk.

The general effect of Eustace’s speech was that he consented, while making great emphasis to “be wary of unrespectable activities” and bidding me to “refrain from improper action.” In summary, he said “Yes, you may go, but don’t get into trouble.” Really, I could have been saved a half an hour of his rambling, if he stopped being so priggish! The clock bellowing nine o’clock startled me, and put an end to the lecture. I hastily thanked him for the permission, asking leave, then dashing across the hall. I was not going to let Mr Woods and Joseph down again!

My miscalculated jump onto the wooden cart sustained a rather unbecoming brown patch on my skirt, and all vitality hurled out of my being. The ensuing pain was as if each vertebrate of my spine sprung into spearheads. Immense aching notwithstanding, I endeavoured to inform Mr Woods and Joseph of my upcoming leave as soon as possible. Firstly, however, I needed to catch my breath. Positive that I had the ability to speak properly, I addressed to Mr Woods my utmost regret at leaving my post again for a short trip.

“Well, I suppose the break is planned this time, eh?” he chuckled. “Thanks for telling me now. How long will you be away for?”

“It’s been proposed for two weeks. Why, it’s shorter than my _accident_ , yet I still regret having to take leave from the Hare & Tortoise.”

“We’ve all got to have our fun, Miss H. If we made you play for us every night, we’d break you! Take it easy. Tell me how it went when you come back, hey?”

Upon entering, Joseph promptly took me to the bar and sat me down. A business-like countenance overtook his carefree manner as he took the stool on the opposite side of the counter. He laid his interlaced hands before him, the public house seemingly transforming into a clerk’s office. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“Good evening, madam H. As you can see, I’ve got some very important things to tell you. Now, ever since you mentioned moving out, I’ve been searching for a place you can move into.”

“Oh! Joseph! You didn’t have to!” I gasped.

“Not only that… I’ve been thinking of getting you the Halls. I believe you can be one of the best musicians of the century. Don’t you think so, too? It’s nice playing for us- but we’re just a wee little public house on the outskirts of town. You deserve to be known by everyone in the world. You’ve got so much talent, it’s unbelievable! No more of dallying on with the ‘ladylike’ things. Someone must break the norm, and I think you are just the one to do so!”

I contemplated the proposition. What Joseph said was indeed true- why should I constrict myself to the preconceived duties set by society, when I had the means for a promising career? My former days were marked with the dreams of the stage; of the orchestra building up to the final chord, filling the hall up to the brim with its soaring melodies, while I manoeuvred the keys through glistening runs to finish on an awesome ring. I spent countless hours practising in the parlour- the time was not worth wasting on trivial entertainment for dinner guests. Furthermore, my lack of tertiary education granted me only one other option- to marry. For Alice’s sake, I had sworn to never make a mercenary marriage. And if a career as a pianist does prove to be successful, emancipation was guaranteed, for I would earn the wherewithal to live independently. The past years had merged together in a looming mass of uncertainty; all efforts were put for me to ‘settle down.’ Hereunto, I naively waited those years, thinking some golden day would come where all my burdens would be banished. Therein lay my quandry- the fated termination of burden will not arrive without my action. I had squandered those precious opportunities with lackadaisical romanticism of the future. Past haunts our memories, clinging to the most visceral branches, digging its unrelenting claws into our conscience; Future is malleable- it awaits our hand to direct its infinite paths to our feet, and carry us to our chosen seat. 

With confidence instilled into me, I shook Joseph’s hand.

“I accept your offer of finding a house, and a position as a pianist. Now, that’s rather enough business for me. Let’s have some music.”

“Aye, that’s what I like to hear!” the familiar cheerful Joseph returned once more.

I struck up the Pineapple Rag, Joseph prancing along to the syncopated rhythms. The music imbued an unrestrained elation among the patrons, a prelude to the decadence that would come in Nineteen-Twenty. The spirit for dancing arose in the renewed gleam of ladies’ eyes and the burgeoning attraction of arm to arm. Here the humble pianist is unfortunately excluded, though one can yearn! How marvellous to be in the epicentre of Ragtime, where lovers are in eternal cradle, packed into a hall by the evening light, yet spin and glide as if there is nobody else there. Chatter and a mellow piano reside in the background. To feel his hand clasping mine, leading me into a gentle sway, gazing into the interminable answers of my countenance. Then I would sigh, and melt onto his shoulders…

I think I’m just jealous that my friends didn’t invite me to their dances. Well, at least I don’t have to worry about the torment of gentlemen bombarding me with offers. Or whether my ball-dress is one season out of fashion. And the terrible exhaustion that follows. Oh, not to mention the gossip of who-partnered-with-who, as if spending a few minutes in close proximity heralds a proposal! 

Then, I shall make my own dance. The people here were mirthful and undiscriminating, they did not revel in petty inconveniences. All the while, I struck the staccato chords which leaped across the piano, as if they too were dancing. One day, one day, the notes seemed to promise, you will spring about just as we do! Will I now? I replied, flitting my hands over the chipped ivory keys. Yes! Yes! We tell the truth! they said in dissonance. How can I know you’re telling the truth, if you won’t be there to see my fate? I retorted. It’s fate! It is inescapable and inevitable. You have created us and developed us- it is only fair that you will live to us, they exclaimed in unison. Fine then, I admitted. I will keep your word. The ending chord uttered a last call of encouragement, then retreated back into its stringed and hammered domain.


	6. Droll Aspects

What ever were they implying? Lady Stanfield and Virginia bit their cheeks and pressed their lips together; they seemed to cease listening ever and anon, a scene in black and white appearing above their heads. They rested their chin onto their palms, averting their gaze from reality, to render me in a lithograph to be printed in childrens’ books. There I am stuck in a bed of reeds. Another, I burn my dinner over the open fire. My tent collapses, shrouding me in a tangle of canvas and rope. ‘OUR HEROINE’S MISFORTUNES’ is inscribed at the bottom. It wasn’t half wrong to assume my incompetency in the wilderness.

“I understand what your brother meant by ‘be wary,’” said Lady Stanfield. “But the context in which he said it adds a layer of absurd hilarity.”

“Why so?” I replied, still perplexed.

“That set has its own… leisures. To a newcomer, they appear very improper- I am in no position to censure, mind you, for my own experience was the first and last of its kind. Why! the one trip had firmly set my opinion. I suspect your mind in its juvenility is far more malleable. You will decide in due time- although you will lose their esteem if you refrained (the act is integral to them.) Nay, I shan’t be instructing you on a cause I abandoned long ago! Go forth and be merry in my stead. What say you of this camp, Virginia?”

She drew forwards, as if sharing some bespoke tidings. “I was going to say to Calliope- I received an invitation, too.”

“Oh-”

“And I am in accordance with Clara’s previous meditations. It was correct of him to advise you to ‘be wary’- just in a different regard. Nevertheless, the original intention holds.” she astutely added. “The ensuing situation enables the worst vices in human nature to surface.”

I shuddered, the convictions of each plunging me into the lowest, blackest pit of indecision and incomprehension. The camp’s “leisures” should be feared, scrutinised, participated in, and shunned all at once? What kind of blasphemous deeds happen at the camp? I hope they don’t sacrifice virgin maidens, because I would be the top choice.

“We’ve frightened you! ‘Tis but a mere portion of the camp.” observed Lady Stanfield. Virginia assented. “It was imprudent of us to take such heavy criticisms. We’ve forgotten the mere triviality of it. I shall be glad to have the company of Calliope and Ka.”

“Oh- but you haven’t told me what they do.”

They chortled, poking back and forth, gesturing at the other to give the explanation. All the while, I wracked the four corners of my brain deciphering the warnings Lady Stanfield and Virginia gave to me. Ominous circumstances were implicated, which I had not the sharpness to process. Unless- Eustace was correct about the set engaging in illicit activities. Then I might just partake out of spite. In a remote location with reckless youths, there are only two outcomes: death or orgiastic ecstasy.

My companions’ jovial airs seemed to confirm the latter. The task of elucidation was placed on Lady Stanfield.

“At your insistence, Calliope, I will recount my camp. Dear, I speak as if it was a childhood tragedy- far from it! It was the summer of ‘09, I recall, and Bunny (indicating to a man sitting on the opposite side) had persuaded me to attend. I held qualms in my comparatively antique age of twenty-six, moreso bolstered by the shortness of my acquaintance to the set in that period. However, he assured me that neither age (he was but seventeen) nor intimacy constituted the criteria for its attendance. In sooth, he was not wrong! We- they- cared not for good breeding in those sultry nights amongst the open field and river. We regressed to the most primal habits; eating, bathing, talking, then sleeping. I suspect the openness gave me an indisposition, for there was no more to cover us than some flannel and a thin tent above our heads- ah, I digress. Yes, yes, we were very primal indeed. You see- we were all naked. Not a single thread to cover us in the breezy evening air! Around ten of us convened by the meager firelight, completely insufficient for warmth. The only other source of light was a bicycle lamp. By the end of the second night, I thought of nothing but going home. Egad, how the days and nights relentlessly repeated themselves! Those sisters- what were their names?- of course, Bryn and Noel! My time there would not be half as tedious if they had shown some restraint. I hope to all heavens that they are not coming on your trip--”

“They were mentioned in Ka’s letter to me.”

“--then I can only wish for you to retain sanity. Pray, Calliope, you are not a flirt?”

“No- keeping gentlemen is my most prominent deficiency.”

“Good. This camp is the one instance where it becomes a strength. You do not want any more entanglements than you are prepared to endure. Bryn and Noel and their blasted flirtatious tendencies! Chasing and teasing and crying again and again! It sent me into agony to watch the outbursts they created every day. I have faith in your sagacity that you will not cause such commotion. Let’s see if two years have changed anything, and the group has finally grown some senses.”

So I am going into a Bacchic cult! What else could it be; wanton conference under the moonlight, the shedding of all decency? Worst of all, I have to spend two weeks sleeping in a miserable tent, just to wake to quarrels each morning!? Hereupon, I considered retracting my decision to go, then retracting that idea when I realised how injured Ka and Virginia would feel if I suddenly stayed back. Obviously! There’s Ka and Virginia. With their guidance, there was little possibility for me to fall into bad graces.

Virginia smiled through Lady Stanfield’s account, holding the favourable opinion. “We differ like North and South on this matter. It is the stuff of dreams for me; I daresay the nakedness has been in many a nightmare for Clara. The premise is disconcerting- understandably so- the real act is far less intense. Think of it as… our present arrangement, but in the Primitive era.”

“Humph! I would not, for a thousand acres of the most picturesque fields, give up the comforts of electric lights and a maid for my daily toilette. Brand me vain as you will, but God’s generous hand simply did not bestow such endurance upon me.” Lady Stanfield straightened up in a mockingly orgulous manner.

“There is no doubting one’s rightful demand for quality. I always found it amusing how closely your perceptions of the bucolic resembles those of Marie Antoinette’s.”

“You are not wrong- playing a shepherdess is about much as I can tolerate.”

“Then Calliope, Ka, and I shall unleash our basest instincts on your behalf.”

“Please do! I have not an ounce of roughness in my constitution.”

✵

The lobby’s capacity could not yield to another stray step, yet Alice leapt past the theatre-goers as if she was a ballet dancer on stage. Gripping me by the wrist, she reached for the door, and betimes conveyed us onto the street, now kindly enveloped in midnight’s cloak of misty luminescence. A girl-like spirit had resurfaced in Alice, who skipped down the footpath, swinging my arm with hers. Hand in hand, we merrily followed what the blotted lamplight could outline. When did we last stay out until this hour? Possibly during the initial years of Alice’s marriage, when we regularly saw the opera- I particularly remember attending the premier of _Madama Butterfly_.

But this was no Puccini. Tonight, we had come with the express intent of seeing Miss Elsie. At the first performance _The Merry Widow_ , Alice developed a strong penchant for the stage and its fashions. She sported the towering “Nell Gwyne” hat, attempted to lace down to Miss Clifford’s size (“I do think those photographs have been painted over…”), and envied after Miss Fealy’s beauty. She read the pictorials, any magazine that displayed those fine women in print, and bought their postcards as they were released. Eustace thought it frivolous, that it was “an utter waste of money! What was wrong with _La Traviata_?” Maybe because not all of us can bear to watch a three hour long tragedy, always with the heroine dying, every week? He forbade the theatre, packing away the stacks of pictures and magazines, lest we fall into an insipid hysteria of stage fever (though according to him, with or without, women were still empty-headed.) However, we stole tonight to finally indulge in our swelling longing for the stage and all the women who grace the halls.

“Oh, Cal, wasn’t it all so splendidly done! I am sure Lucile designed the frocks, too. How I wish I could buy one of her outfits! Truly, a feast for the eyes, don’t you think so?”

“Indeed- was it Lucile who re-introduced the empire style? A pioneer of fashion, yet I can’t help but detest the direction female dress has taken since then. Skirts, in my irrelevant and bothersome opinion, have become too slim. To me, it has degraded into a mere bolt of cloth about the legs. Well- I have no say, for I wear your old clothes out in London for everyone to see.”

Alice giggled and shrugged her shoulders. “No shame, my dear! It is very becoming on you.”

I received some odd looks from passerby, who even under insufficient light, saw that my garb was outdated. It was of form-fitting velvet, embellished with innumerable jewels and sequins, after Queen Alexandra. My coiffure, at my maid’s recommendation, was done to match the gown. Overall, a sense of peculiar incongruity educed out of my sister and I. She, with a composed and dignified mien that grew with maturity, was clothed in the lastest mode du jour of a youngest daughter. I, the said youngest daughter, bore the rigid lines and scintillating opulence, facets of that old era which we so longed to abandon. Perhaps those curious passerby made paper dolls of us; they effortlessly unstuck the dresses and put them onto the more fitting doll. Or did they think with a mathematical mind? For when fractions are multiplied, common factors can be found between the numerators and denominators, and cancelled off.

Here Alice and I reached a junction, where hundreds seemed to converge into one point of mass migration. The cabs rattled past. Spectrums extended their colourful limbs to the edges of one’s vision, bidding the eye to follow its blinding ray to its source like a moth drawn to glowing fire. There, another hall; a gay orchestra strummed along to an equally gay song. Porters in their stiff uniforms stoicly guarded the entrances to restaurants and hotels. Heels tapped on the ashphalt. A collective human mass was halted by an arbitrary change of paving material. And to think our race indestructible!

Wherefore did my sight wander to this elusive corner, a place so far removed, yet so intriguing? There, along a bend, a couple strode into a darkened alleyway. The people themselves did not elicit my attention. It was the grip of the man. His fingers gripped and overlapped her elbow, in that possessive stance of a kidnapper taking a hostage. She struggled behind his hurried steps. Ever and anon there was a bump on the path, and she tripped, but could not fall, instead stooping abreast the man. He hurried, drawing her closer- not out of affection or sympathy. A sharp jerk of his arm brought her stumbling even further down, now covered by his shadow, who was covered by the looming shadow of the inevitably decaying hotel. Looking to both sides, he cautiously approached the unmarked front. They were admitted, he kicked his lady, then ran inside, letting the draughts slam the door shut. Nothing now. They’ve disappeared- or did they?

A shuffling about the ground restarted my awareness. I pushed past the homogenous pedestrians, searching for Alice. Yet my eyes diverted to the alleyway again. Jutting above the heads, the shabby brick structure seemed to grow scornful at my inquisition. Forward! There! She is just out of reach. I shan’t get lost! Through the gaps, I could see the gleam of her necklace. Follow the gleam, like how sailors of yore followed the North Star. Crossing the street, I fixated on that distant hotel. Nobody walked in or out. Its facade remained indistinct without the windows being lighted up. There was a certain charm in the warm orange glow of light from a window. A sense of home- the knowledge that behind the glass pane were residents with beating hearts and souls very much aflame. On the contrary, unlit windows suggested loss, deterioration- something to hide. Yet it was the obstruction that elicited such wild imagination. A long deserted manor, a former family seat; fled after financial ruin? A curse put onto its heir? Or was it hiding a fallen nobleman? A derelict chamber in the middle of an avenue; grisly secrets? Mysterious documents hidden in the garret? Oh, to tread through its dusty stairwell, tracing my fingers along the peeling wallpaper!

And so I looked on at the hotel, speculating its happenings. Very few patrons- mostly of reduced incomes. They would drift aimlessly, some holding a cigarette. An apathetic receptionist droops his head onto his breast behind the grimy counter, a broken bell and yellowed log-book waiting to be used. The halls are endless and gloomy. The carpet spits out dirt and grime at every step. A noisome stench pervades. All but one of the rooms is empty. No maids have cleaned them for decades; why should they, when they remain unoccupied anyway? In an unsuspecting room on the third floor, however, there are people. Not the happiest nor the kindest of people. Merely two people wishing to spend a night alone- their vices regenerated in their black habitation. Feeble, threadbare drapery made a barrier between decency and shame. I was not holding the act itself to condemnation. No; rather, the purposeful complication of bringing it to unsavoury and sordid places where it can only further descend into a pit of misery and corruption. He sits on the collapsing bed, half undressed, hands resting on his knees. He sighs mournfully. The figure beside him is sleeping, swathed by an itchy blanket, her hair spread loosely across the pillow. A dress hangs over the chair. Its hem is worn with pin-prick holes, stained an unsightly brown at the very edge. Cheap jewellery is scattered on the vanity. Still, he sits and stares. The clock goes _tick-tock_ , the woman’s breath is subdued and rhythmic, and below, the street is bustling. In that stifled room on the third floor, all is quiet. All is stationary. A relic of a forsaken conception.

Reaching out, I barely brushed Alice’s arm. A few more steps… _Sorry, excuse me, sorry_. “Alice! Alice! Wait for me, I’m behind you!” I cried, drowned out by the passing vehicles and the rising sussuration of the crossing. She was nary a few inches away. A narrow clearing formed, and I sprinted forwards, arm and fingers outstretched. “Wait! I’m here!” I took her arm in relief, catching my breath. Alice quivered and let out a gasp. Seeing I was by her side again, she touched her hand to her heart. “I thought I had lost you forever! Stay near me next time, won’t you?” Soon we had arrived at the footpath. We walked at a constant pace, the scene behind shrinking, smaller, smaller, into the end of a tunnel. The rumble grew softer, softer, no more than a whisper. I turned to spot the hotel. It was not there anymore. We stood at the curb, Alice hailing a hansom. The night air was bitter cold and relentless, even in midsummer. An indistinct moving box approached. We boarded, slumping down on the padded cushions. Home was nigh.

But no-one was home. We did not see Eustace until the morning.


	7. Ka, Virginia, and I are Deserted

Piles hither and thither, cases lay half-packed and open, and supper on the side-table was untouched. I so desperately wanted to go to sleep! A succession of thuds indicated that another box of unnecessary things was being conveyed by Mrs Ackermann, who had for two hours been adding items of increasingly dubious function to my luggage. “Take this- you will need it,” she said each time she handed me an object I had never seen before. “It’s been years since any of us took a vacation! How I have missed the thrill of packing!” And packing she did enjoy, for she picked through the clothes she liked best, folded them and laid them inside, to then find the choice unfavourable, then start again in another case, picking a new set of clothes. In the repetition, she grew more flustered, wiping her brow and exclaiming the toll it was taking on her back. I shied away, sitting and watching. I daren’t disturb such perseverance. 

“Ah! We are all ready now!” Mrs Ackermann said, holding a shabby brown portmanteau riddled with faded stamps and tags. “It has everything you need- garments of a hardy nature, your favourite books, all the items for your toilette, your best hats, two quilts, a lamp, silver cutlery, a tin of biscuits, a box of matches, and a one pound note in case of an emergency.” She proudly set it at the foot of the bed, ignoring the mess in the room.

“Thank you, Mrs Ackermann.” In reality, we were both as dumbfounded as each other. What _did_ one bring to a camp? It is an occupation untouched by all members of this household. Alice would never have dreamed to attend such a trip in her youth. I am fortunate to live in an age of growing lenience.

“Please- let me help to clean up.” I offered, surveying the mounds of stuff that littered the floor. I can’t always assume privileged treatment. Mrs Ackermann was astonished, but grateful, and so we both snatched the offending clutter off of the ground, sorting them into neat piles by category. At last, my room was restored to its previous tidiness. I dismissed Mrs Ackermann, or rather she hastily dismissed herself, realising the lateness of the hour, and scuttled downstairs with a towering heap of wrinkled clothes.

One more sleep! One more, I reassured myself, my nervousness arising again. Go to sleep- I cannot fret and worry during sleep. Tomorrow, the next day, the whole week, I will not be alone, for Ka and Virginia are with me. There is no need to devise my actions, they understand that I am new. Wait… Rupert’s going as well. He is sure to be there. Argh! I had forgotten about him. How shall I proceed? I hope he remains neutral to me. Perhaps he, too, has forgotten about me. The course of the camp may well run that he will only speak a few words to me. Stop- I am overthinking. Go to sleep now, be rested, and the morrow will rise in exultant gold.

✵

Carrying the hefty portmanteau with both hands, I waited at the platform with Alice and Eustace. The former embraced me tightly and whispered encouragement, while the latter crossed his arms and stared down at his feet. A zephyr stole around, bringing the undeveloped morning warmth that was slightly damp, a prologue to the heat. It was just us three. Strangely peaceful- the railway track sat vacant, and a few timid passengers reposed on the benches yonder. Soon London will awaken, pouring forth its swarm of citizens into the interminable bends and streets. Now, right now, they slumber, they will not invade. 

Eustace began to shift impatiently, flicking open his pocket watch in short intervals. That won’t make the train arrive any faster. “Enjoy yourself there. When you come back, you must tell me everything you did!” Alice beamed. I nodded, entirely unsure whether my recounts would be appropriate. After what Lady Stanfield and Virginia said, my expectations of innocent antics amongst the fields were abolished. Even if I refused to partake, the scars of witnessing will be burned eternally. I suppose I can’t be playing with dolls anymore.

The thundering grate of metal on metal signalled the oncoming train, and for Alice and Eustace to bid me adieu. Kisses were received promptly. I heaved the luggage on board, picking a seat whence I could gaze out the window. On this journey I also remembered to bring sufficient entertainment. And no over-fragrant ladies were here! Greatly satisfied at the prospect, I prepared myself comfortably for the lengthy ride. Wrapping a pale pink shawl around my arms, I settled into the seat and resumed annotating Byron. Intermittently I found myself jolted awake, dazed, the pencil dropped, book splayed, pages creased. The body truly works in strange ways. Perhaps it was better to yield. Soon I will be crying to have the luxury of a rigid train seat. 

Coming to this resolution, the volume was put away, and I spent the remaing time contemplating the queer sequence of events which brought me to this adventure. Terrible poems, a literary friend for a literary circle, to the terrible poet. And shall I dispose of the poet just as I did with his poems? No- I have not read through line by line his foibles, nor his disposition. The interpretation of man’s creation does not always reveal the man. He may not be as unpalatable as his stanza-less monstrocities. Though I can’t trust anyone who is capable of writing such disastrous works. At present, he is to be left on the desk for an indeterminate break.

I faltered up the steep hill. Progress was nonexistent. Far away, a gentle river lulled a liquid melody. Ever and anon the flutter of a bird rustled the leaves overhead. The footsteps of Ka and Virginia were growing more distant. Quick! Over the fallen branches, stray pebbles, careful where the soil is loose. Green enveloped my vision. Onwards! I mustn't fall behind. Each step added another ounce to the portmanteau, and I toiled like Sisyphus with his boulder. The bottom half of them were now barely visible. Futher up I went, climbing and stepping, falling down several times. I could hear them speaking. My breath grew sharp and staggered, and the ground underneath began to roll back and forth. No- I can catch my breath later. Exerting my last reserve of energy, I sprinted over the peak of the hill, kicking dust behind me, heartbeat breaking through the flesh. Gasping for air, I skidded abreast my companions, who, for the entire trek, showed no signs of fatigue. To possess a hint of athleticism! Anyhow, the distance was recovered, and I re-joined Ka and Virginia, albeit with a puffing red face and significantly compromised speed.

“Calliope! Are you alright? You’re very tired,” said Ka. “We must take a rest for you.” Virginia agreed, and we sat on the gnarled roots of a sprawling tree. For a while, I could not say anything; my bosom heaved rapidly, and I was regaining my strength. The point of my boots were pinching. We must have been walking for more than two hours now; we had begun from the station. It was impossible for a motor-car to transport us to the remote campsite. Since alighting, we had advanced at a steady pace in order to arrive by the afternoon. No concessions were to be made on this eight mile hike. Like a child, I posed the inescapable question--

“When are we going to be there?”

“Very soon, I believe. We have only a mile left to walk. Let’s finish it now- there will be plenty of time to take a rest afterwards.” replied Virginia, helping me rise. An agonising ache had spread to the bone. A little more and I may repose however I wished. The walk was resumed, my companions taking turns to carry my luggage and give me water. I continued much easier downhill, watching the wood become less dense, and making animals out of the fluffy clouds that floated across the clear vault. I hummed some of my favourite pieces; to have no piano is a tragedy. How will I even survive! I shall come back with immobile fingers. We tread onwards, Ka and Virginia now chittering- apparently we were so near to our destination. A burst of determination arose, and now I was overtaking them. They laughed, and ran after me, declaring that we are sure to have an exquisite night. All three of us in good spirits, we finished the remaining stretch without trouble.

✵

“Hello? Hello! Anyone here? Hello! It’s Ka, Virginia, and Calliope!” Ka wailed at the deserted field. A firepit with a few scraps of kindling and some half-assembled tents formed the remnants of the party. Sunset was approaching. I laid on a log, Virginia next to me fervently contemplating what we should do. Pacing around the grass, Ka shook her head, and decided to sit on the log as well. None of us had foreseen this dire circumstance. “We need something to eat,” murmured Virginia. Hunger was setting in. Ka and I rummaged through our bags to find any bit of food. There was a spoiled pudding, alongside my biscuits which were smashed from the travel. We had nothing else. Each taking her share, we ate the meagre meal in silence. Darkness captured the world second by second. “Here- I will light the fire.” I gathered a bunch of twigs and piled them into the pit. A substantial fire was burning, enough to keep us warm for the evening. Huddling together, we waited for anyone to come. But what if they never came back, and we were to spend the night uncovered and starving? Oh, dear reader, save us from this cruelty! I dropped my head onto Virginia’s shoulder. She sighed, stroking my hand. We should have never agreed on this trip- I should have listened to Eustace.

What was that? A sound- a human voice? It moved closer and closer, echoing through the land. There seemed to be multiple bearers of this sound, who generated a humdrum of varying volumes and patterns. Here was a woman’s sweet voice. Another, the rumbling drone of a group of men. I beckoned to Ka and Virginia. Was it the party? Scrambling to my portmanteau, I felt around for my lamp, trying to turn it on. It flickered with a dull yellow glow. Bless Mrs Ackermann! her instincts are to be trusted. Holding it out, I espied the faint outline of some people. They were too far away to see us. Yet it was unmistakably a group meandering across an eminence. I waved the lamp above my head and called. There seemed to be no response. We could only stand and watch them gradually make their way down the path. How long will it take? Night had already conquered.

A succession of footsteps grinding against the dirt alerted us. Ka, Virginia, and I assembled to receive the party. They were coming around a dense cluster of trees and bushes in clarion conversation. My companions recognised the voices, pricking up and darting their eyes like cats, tentatively padding forwards to glimpse at the nearing travellers. Portions of grey, vaguely human-shaped cutouts appeared. The feeble lamplight did not distinguish any faces or features. I stood unmoved, too frightened to further investigate a party of virtual strangers. Shivers convulsed through my limbs, the shakiness of my wrist rattling the metal on the lamp. The first figure to issue out of the wilderness was of a girl. Shortly, the rest of them emerged, greeting Ka and Virginia, who had advanced onto the track. All the while, I stayed back, surveying the party as much as possible amidst the inky shadows. Like Lady Stanfield’s recount, there were about ten members. There seemed to be more men than women. They dropped themselves onto the logs or the ground, stretching their arms and legs, poking at the fire with sticks.

“Welcome to the camp. Take a seat- you must be tired.” I spun round.

It was Rupert!


	8. Their Leisure (at last!)

They had gone to Crediton for afternoon tea; Rupert, Gwen, Jacques, Gerald, Maitland, Bryn, Noel, Bunny, Justin, James, Geoffrey, and Pauly. Having no reason to haste after finishing tea, they went to see a play. They simply assumed that we’d set up camp in the meantime. A note- nay- even a message written on the ground would have sufficed! But I can’t lose my temper now, not when I have eleven friendships to make, and to finally see and possibly partake in their mythical ‘leisure.’

Gathering in a circle around the fire, the friends sat and talked; I heard discussions for the evening activity, who was to cook meals, tent placements, &c. &c. I endeavoured to learn about each of the members; Providence placed Bunny (his real name was David) next to me, who was delighted to know I came on Lady Stanfield’s bidding, and thus had no qualms divulging every secret of the party. He was a young man with fair hair and attentive eyes. Our station within the group was akin- being not entirely detached, yet not intimate with the members either- the ideal status in a circle with constant tension. Hereupon he listed all their amours; Jacques was caught between Gwen and Ka, Noel was once engaged to Rupert, Bryn and Noel were out for anyone, and so was Rupert. Even Virginia once did this, Bunny said. She and Clive- though no more than passing flirtation and dubious letters, Vanessa was greatly upset. This set was nothing compared to what Virginia’s group threw themselves into. “By-the-by, how did you know Clara? You’re always sitting with her on Thursday evenings. It’s my bad, really- I should have come and said hello.” Assuring him that his hestitance was not an issue, I told him of my childhood friendship with Lady Stanfield, our separation, and our eventual reunion. He was evidently pleased that I was her  protégé. “She’s too exceptional to not impart her talents unto another promising youth. And to right her wrongs!” he said cheekily. “I have an inkling of a feeling that you will act very resolutely--”

Here Ka came to tell me that the group was going to the river.

“--speaking of the deed, let’s go, Calliope!”

We were at the banks of the Teign, a single bicycle lamp planted on the ground. Bunny handed me over to Ka. “Men and women change separately,” he explained. Ah- so they have some decency! Following Ka, we went to the left, whither two or three had already stripped, and were frolicking through the reeds. Still, my disposition was in no way prepared. Erring on the side of caution, I sat cross-legged, assessing the scene. A bundle of clothes were shed, then another, then another, the wearers standing on the riverbank, apparently awaiting something. Soon, the men emerged, and the party broke into excitement, racing and jumping into the water. I recoiled in horror. Barenaked, the men and women shamelessly mixed, swimming about the river with no sense of propriety! Absolutely no awareness of the obscenity! They waded, laughing, diving and splashing water everywhere. It was too late to divert my gaze. I had seen  _ everything _ \- and I genuinely mean  _ everything _ . I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that maybe it was all a fever dream from a want of dinner, and when I opened them, I’d see that the party was reposing on the bank.

A round of shouting and calling were directed at me. There was Bryn and Noel standing waist-deep in the river, beckoning me to have a swim. Virginia, Ka, and Bunny followed suit. No matter how much they implored me to swim, I was  _ not _ ! I refuse! How could I tell Alice about this?!  _ If this reaches Eustace, my head will be put under the guillotine! _ No, no, no! I remained sitting on the grass, bowing and hiding my face behind my knees. They carried on, bobbing up and down in the water, like Satan’s apples in a barrel.

Who should draw near, other than Rupert, with pieces of weeds and an intent smile plastered on his face? He leaned onto the bank, assuming an artless countenance.

“Why don’t you come and have a swim? The water’s great.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t you want to join in? It’d be a shame to miss out on the fun.”

“No, because this isn’t fun.”

“What! Not fun? Well, what would you do instead?”

I did not respond. 

“Come on, I can see it in your eyes that you want to. There’s nothing to be afraid of! It’s just swimming.”

“But it’s not  _ just swimming _ \- you’re all naked! And the sexes mingle with each other! This is the worst pastime I have ever seen. Lady Stanfield was sensible to dislike it.”

“Lady Stanfield also wallowed in isolation for the two weeks. Now, would you rather be a bore who sits out on everything, or take delight in this?”

“Fine, I will swim. But I am going to keep away from the men,” I grumbled. Taking refuge behind the trees, I stripped, having much difficulty unlacing and unbuttoning in the pitch-black night. Inwardly, I sobbed as I placed my pristinely laundered petticoats, chemise, and stockings onto the muddy grass. Poor maids- to be scrubbing all the grime! There I stood, exposed to the elements, still trying to cover my modesty as I descended into the river. Brr! It was like stepping into an icebox. The riverbed was slippery, with a dreadful slimy texture. I waded over to Ka and Virginia’s side. They were floating placidly by the reeds, making little noise. I ducked beneath the water, so that I was shielded up to the nose, blowing some bubbles. It wasn’t long before Bryn deviously stole over. 

“Rupert wants you to join him.”

“Why?” I scoffed, blowing even more bubbles.

“Because he wants you to. You’re always avoiding him.” She beckoned to me. “Here, we’ll go together.” 

We found ourselves in the middle of a boisterous game of splashing; Bunny flinging the water at Noel, who then kicked, showering James with a torrent, and Justin was chasing Gwen, Maitland, and Rupert. I weaved through the ordeal, trying not to be blinded by the many sprays. “What’s her name- Calliope! Come on over! We’re having a capital time!” one of them shouted. The river was shallow at this point, and I crouched so that I could be fully submerged from the shoulders down. Taking notice of my presence, Rupert made way. Oh no… the water’s getting very low… It was sinking to his navel… He looked at me, wondering why I should contort myself and be such an ass. I furrowed my brows and blew a mound of rolling bubbles. 

“You alright there?” he asked, somewhere between inquisitiveness and consternation.

Bubbles.

“I know you might find this strange and a bit shocking…”

Bubbles, bubbles.

“...You’ll adjust to it. We’re not going to judge your appearance, if that’s concerning you.” Getting lower… I could see his hip-bone…

Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles.

“Would you please stop doing that? It’s very childish. Talk properly.” He stepped closer, stooping down to my level.

Bubbles! Bubbles!

He frowned. Barely an inch left… 

“Stop it! Why are you gurgling?” He bent forward, attempting to appease me by stroking my cheek. It was too late. I saw every detail.

Letting out a shriek, I propelled upwards, flailing. My brain degraded into convulsions and removed all sensitivities to the surrounding world. Gasping, I fell backwards, submerged in the icy water.

Floating; weightless, non-corporeal, ensnared in a timeless vault, in a vast expanse of black dotted with speckles of effulgent opals.

Numb and insensate. My physical form had escaped. I was no longer human, but a being ravaged of an existence on the mortal plane. Something pressed onto the cavity that was once my bosom, pressing it, lifting, then pressing again with life-ending vigour. It triggered a constricting surge, a jolt which expelled a foaming current. A pair of torrid hands felt over my pallid lifeless skin, checking for a pulse at the wrists and neck. Air. I needed air. Without it, I was a cadaver. I wish I was a cadaver. I would rather lie in the grave than lie unmoving, barely sentient. Somewhere, a woman was sobbing. Let her cry, then, for I am nothing more than a fleeting capsule of a life ended too early. A downy sheet was wrapped around my body. Yes- they are carrying me into the morgue, where they will rub balms of immortality into my skin, preserving me for the futile parade underground. I was dangled, suspended; was there no stretcher? The support emitted heat, a regular beat coursing beneath it, but only on one side. On the other side was a void. Movement. Movement- microscopic. Whither did it begin? The divisions of the mass resting on my stomach. It twitched. Another twitched the same. Then the whole mass oscillated, bringing forth a prickling sensation. I watched it move. What power had permitted this wicked animation? A curse! I have been seized by a fiend; cunning too, for my revival is to satisfy his demands.

Bleak grey coldness permeated my hands, setting them into a rigid claw. I tried to lift my index finger, but it was motionless. Still unclothed, I was crudely wrapped in a flannel blanket, exposed to a piercing chill from the knees down. My transporter moved in a sickening wobbly pace; as if I was sealed in a jar and violently shaken about. It held me under the shoulders and knees… Was I being carried back? The shocking notion forced out a gasp. Whoever was carrying me heard, as a man’s hand, sprawling, riddled with specks of dirt, caressed my own limp hand. He grasped it, raising it above my vision, before gently kissing it, and setting it across my chest. I could only emit another gasp in protest. How dare he? Now he was running his fingers through my hair. Stop! Stop this now! Who is this man, who believes it righteous to steal one’s touch? His face was not visible- how unfortunate, for I would smite him. Presently, I must endure this trial and take recompense once I recover. Again, he took my hand, this time uttering some words.

“Shh… you’re safe now. Hold on.”

Straining, I caught sight of his nose. It was the most perfectly formed nose I had ever beheld. The bridge gracefully swooping away in one smooth stroke, rounding off in a subtle tip, the serif at the end of a ceremonial signature. The Renaissance masters weep at his golden profile. Delicate yet pronounced, forbidden to be felt. What if I were to touch it as he touched me? Perhaps it is just like touching a kitten or a rabbit’s nose, pressing my finger onto the wet snout, him squeezing his eyes shut and quickly escaping the offending contact with a sweet little ‘achoo!’ Or is it polished and cool, chiseled from marble by a bygone sculptor, part of a statue that stands on a podium in a museum, masses swarming around to see the prized work. I wonder if he realises the beauty of himself as I do for him. 

“We’re going to be back soon, I promise. It’s difficult when we’re in the dark.” The voice was eerily familiar, a fragmented speech which broke out of a dream from long ago. It resonated in my ears, the one sentence lingering, so banal- so gripping- yet I knew that voice from somewhere. I must have heard it before. The human brain is incapable of creating faces that do not exist. The same must be for a voice. Who was it?--

I had unwittingly mumbled that conviction. The man halted.

“What was that?” he cried.

“Who-- are-- you--?” 

He said nothing, staring at me in astonishment. Then he resumed walking, increasing the pace.

“I should not have stopped- you must get back to the camp. Don’t fret- it’s me, Rupert. I pulled you out of the water when you fainted.”

The name, the face, the voice, and the surroundings were all unknown. He said I had fainted- I had no memory of it, nor of anything. A black void had settled into my mind. What had happened? It seemed that I was born seconds before from the soil. 

Suspended in the darkness was a flickering yellow orb. It waxed and waned, momentarily shrinking, then exploding with a renewed intensity. At the sight of this phantom star, the man tensed up, gripping me even tighter, breaking into a run. I repeated his name- Rupert, Rupert, now conjuring up a blurred image, in all probability false, the product of my materialisation. Nevertheless, the name remained in front of my vision, a lone picture on a desolate wall. In fact, there were two names, but I could not remember the second. ‘Rupert’ was rendered in sharp black lines against a grainy beige background. Indistinct hieroglyphs replaced the missing name. It graced the bottom of a page; a story? a letter? a card? The verifying mark that whatever it was, an identifiable being had composed it. Suddenly, a foreign body of words manifested above the name, a continuous flow of line upon line, falling through the page like a waterfall. Poetry! It was poetry! He had written poetry! And his name was RUPERT BROOKE!

He had ceased moving; he stood in front of an open tent, occupied by Ka and Virginia. I writhed about in his arms, twisting and striking, feebly wailing.

“Put me down! Put me down NOW!” my fist swung short of his jaw. The two gasped, at once rushing to placate me, Rupert digging his hands deeper into my flesh. Relentlessly, I aimed my fists at him, who effortlessly dodged and prevented me from breaking away from him. 

“Would you stop it! Ka! Virginia! Help me! I don’t know why she’s turned so violent!”

“He kissed me!” I rasped.

“Rupert! Why did you do that!” Ka shouted.

“What! Not…. not in that way!”

“Well, he kissed and touched without me knowing!” I curved my fingers into a claw, dragging my nails across his forearm. He momentarily winced, then recovered.

“You were supposed to take her immediately to the camp!” cried Virginia.

“I did! I took her out of the water’--” I swiped. “--But she was unconscious--” nearly at his eye! “--so I resuscitated her first, then carried her back--” kick! kick! “--It took a long time because I was walking, carrying her, in the dark!” I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him astray. He yielded with a groan, before forcefully restraining my arms. 

“You still shouldn’t have kissed her! Unbelievable!” burst out Ka, trying to release me from his grip.

“Stop! Please! Let me go,” I implored, trying to twist my hands out- it seemed that a steel cable was wound around my wrists.

“Rupert- stop- now! She’s already weak, you will hurt her beyond repair!” Virginia bellowed- everyone ceased. She never raised her voice.

Defeated, he laid me down inside the tent, then returned to his own, not a single apology or goodbye. Ka tucked me into a sleeping bag, piling several blankets over me, while Virginia went out to bring back my portmanteau and clothes. Lightheaded, dazed, slipping away from reality, I layed, watching Ka and Virginia move to and fro, one moment with a lamp, next some bags, then a stack of toppling metal dishes, then a bundle of skirts draped over their backs. They did not stay in the tent for more than a minute, stooping to place the item, then scuttling outside again. Once Ka came in, left, and did not return. The lamplight cast a mellow glow over the drab canvas, the spiritual successor to a single candle burning in a study at midnight. Without, the faint drone of cicadas buzzing filled in my empty thoughts. The others must be asleep. I was hungry, thirsty, aching, exhausted. When will they return?

The flap opened, revealing Virginia holding my stamp-covered portmanteau. She kneeled beside me, dimming the lamp.

“I’m going to watch you tonight. Ka has gone to sleep. There won’t be a doctor until tomorrow morning- it’s dire, but we’re miles away from the nearest town. You will live through the night.”

“Please- I don’t want Rupert here.”

“No. I’ll make sure. There are enough people to take care of you. And Ka has written to your sister. In most likelihood, you can’t return home, and she won’t be able to see you. The grounds are too remote. You’ll have to stay for the duration of the camp.”

“Do you think I’ll get better?”

“Of course. We are doing our best. Rest now, rest easy.”

She held my hand. The lamp was off. 

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in its petty pace…


	9. Recollection

The doctor’s prescription was rather common, the cure that all those afflicted ladies in novels receive; bedrest, mild gruel thrice a day, no stimulation whatsoever. I saw nothing, heard nothing, read nothing, spoke nothing. There was nothing for me to process, to contemplate. Reader, I have naught but my memories. Perhaps you will find them intriguing.

It was December, the beginning of my venture into High Society. A fancy-dress ball; the innocent veiled dabbling into the glimmering ballroom filled with swishing costumes and sonorous music. I had read  _ Mansfield Park _ of late, my mind engulfed by a vision fantastic of ladies in graceful gowns and towering plumes spinning round in a minuet. Thus I resolved to attend in full Regency garb: cream coloured gown with a trailing train and floral embroidery, low-heeled dancing pumps, and an ostrich plume perched on top of my curled coiffure. Alice painstakingly buttoned the long kid gloves and arranged the pearl band around my neck. “A rightful lady!” she had remarked. Truly a sight, prancing about, batting my fan in hopes of attracting a dashing suitor. 

The guests were crowded before the ornate double doors. Waiting, waiting. It will turn any minute! There were many a personage; I spied a Puck, King Charles II and his mistresses, a flock of garlanded faeries, Georgian duchesses, the Constellations, and Russian imperials. Becky Sharp even pointed and sneered at me! 

I zigzagged through the towering figures, deciphering which character they represented. The roar of gossip and evening machinations was rampant; ladies, titled ones no less, held a glass in one hand and gestured furiously with the other, while gentlemen smoking cigars darted their eyes to whichever woman was next. Filth poured out of the noble mouths and dirtied the white marble columns and floor. But I was most captivated by the sheer amount of jewels and trim. Plaited hems swept the floor, sequins glittered, passementerie snaked from shoulder to wrist to waist to skirt. Rubies, diamonds, emeralds, sapphire, topaz, residing on equally lustrous silks and satins. Ribbons adorned diaphanous puffed sleeves, the delicate point of a shoe, the sweet tresses of a girl. This was Society. The scene of revelry so replicated in pictures; I heard that one woman there was later painted by Sargent.

At the turn of the handle, the gleaming tide rushed into the brilliantly lit ballroom. We laughed, we cheered, we danced, we drank; our jubilance rose with the rich tunes of the orchestra. Decadence reigned. There was no notion of propriety or respectability to govern us. Pleasure was our goal, and we took everything to have it. Gallivanting men made rounds asking ladies for a dance, always beginning and ending with a courteous bow. I accepted every offer. Gliding to the crowd in the centre, I prepared for the opening dance- a stately polonaise. Taking the hand of my gentleman- I cared not for their names- I swayed and paraded around the ballroom in a triple meter step. The row of three couples replicated itself from the farthest corner to the entrance, hand in hand held proudly in the air. Chin high, countenance haughty, I swept along, basking in the glory. 

So the night proceeded on, as fans were batted, whispers dashed from ear to ear, the dances growing lively, and the music growing impassioned. How I was handed over, passed around spinning to the next partner, spun round and round, till the ball turned into a bijoux-clad haze! Hems soared, revealing the hidden profusion of lace and ruffles, brocade heels, striped stockings. There was the incessant echoing of stamps at each jump, as legs kicked and the women skipped in a circle. My heart pumped, hedonism coursing through my veins. I, like others, was transported into a dimension of sensuous movement. We lived on a platinum cloud, galloping high and spinning fast to the blaring orchestra. Floating- we were floating- euphoric, thoughtless, subsisting on gossamer sugar and angel wings.

Nectar and ambrosia, the foods of the gods, the immortals. Will every night be like this if I have enough? Transcendence was what I desired. To escape the mortal realm, into a wonderland where pleasure is infinite. Yes- let me have it, let them give it to me, no matter the cost. Eternal reign shall be imminent, a crown and sceptre in my grasp, I over the humanly constitution. There-- the winged servants-- they come flowing in their white robes, ready to transport me-- I am lifted-- Up above--

Staggering, I pulled my face out of the basin. “You were almost trampled to death!” Clara chastised. We were alone in the lavatory. I looked into the mirror- by god- haggard and swollen, barely a Lady. Wrinkles hung underneath my eyes, bloodshot and plastered wide open. My gown was stained and torn across the skirt and sleeves. Bruises covered my arms, several trickling blood. “Don’t accept everything put before you,” she continued, helping me to balance. The distant peals indicated it was half-past two in the morning. “I’m taking you home immediately. Come, let’s go.”

I was never told what I did that night. Clara thought it the best.

Mrs Ackermann peeked around the corner, waiting for the front door to shut. Scuttling on her toes, she held me by the arm, and we dashed Downstairs like a pair of mad criminals. Jumping off the steps and landing with a loud thud, we asserted our presence in the servant’s hall. There was none but the scullery maid, who almost dropped the plates upon our entrance. Downstairs! Downstairs- the forbidden quarter of the house. It was deserted, save for the few servants at the table reading a paper or having tea. A cold draught lingered. Some saucepans simmered on the stove. Must be for luncheon. I had not expected it to be so quiet. The tales of Mrs Ackermann were tales, after all- there were no maids wailing, no lamentations of wages, or fighting between the men.

The noisiest of them all was always Mrs Ackermann, and this instance was no exception. Shooing the maid away, she grappled through the cupboards to dump a stack of bowls and utensils on the counter. Then she raided the pantry for the ingredients, setting the flour down so fiercely that a thick smog issued out of the sack.

“Here! Today I feel like a caraway seed cake.” she announced, thrusting a wooden spoon into my palm. “Just do as I say and nothing bad will happen. It’s clear you’ve not set foot into a kitchen once in your life. Tut, tut, those nurses and governesses are such a waste! Rearing a child for what? To sit and recite Latin all day long?” She took a bowl and began to crack eggs into it. 

“How old are ye, child?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ah- a right awkward age, I guessed so. Too old to be schooled by a governess, too young to be out. Shame on Sir Ruscombe for abandoning you like this!”

“Is that why you brought me Downstairs?”

“Why, yes, I couldn’t leave you moping alone all day! And us servants need something to do, too. There’s only so much we can mop and wipe. Now we add the dry ingredients.”

Placing a sieve atop the large bowl, I poured in the flour. Soft and airy, like snowflakes drifting on an early winter morning. I stuck my finger into the sugar while nobody was looking and tasted some. The granules melted into a sickly sweet syrup. I winced. How could those children in picture books like to do this? I mixed, forming a mountain inside the bowl. There was a strong temptation to build and knock down the mound again and again. I suppose it was the want of an unrestrained upbringing. Mrs Ackermann creamed the sugar and butter together, forming a smooth pale paste akin to ice cream. What devilry! all I did with butter was to spread it on toast. Now it was time to add the wet ingredients. In goes the butter mixture, milk, and eggs. “Don’t stir it too much,” warned Mrs Ackermann. “Or the whole thing will be tougher than hard tack!” I cautiously folded the spoon through, the once loose flour turning into a viscous batter. The pockets of flour disappeared into the milk, incongruous components merging into a coherent mass. Indeed- there was a whole undiscovered science behind cookery. Why should I not understand the process of making the food I eat?

Satisfied at my attempt, Mrs Ackermann procured a greased tin. “Pour it in precisely. Don’t spill it all over the counter!” she watched me with a keen eye, ready for reprimand at the instant a drop fell astray. I lifted the bowl, now rather heavy, above the tin, scooping the batter out as best as I could with shaking arms. It trickled in large globs, falling splat, splat. Small bubbles appeared at the surface, expanding then popping, leaving empty spots in the batter. “Tap the tin against the counter to remove the air bubbles.” As she said, the bubbles vanished at each hit. Now there was a rush of heat- time to bake it. Mrs Ackermann placed the tin into the oven, closing it, then dusting her hands on her apron. “An hour for it to bake, be patient!” she sat darning a pair of worsted stockings. 

“Oh- what does one do when waiting for a cake to finish baking?”

“Well, what does one do? Anything to pass the time. Why don’t you do the dishes- learn another household skill.”

I obeyed, picking up the used bowls and submerging them in warm soapy water. Using a sponge- very satisfying to squeeze and watch it spring back into shape- I began to clean. It was an arduous process, splashing the water everywhere, into my face, my hair, the front of my dress soaked. Sleeves rolled to the elbow and hair falling loose, the bowls and utensils were cleaned. All done, at last! I looked at the clock- fifteen minutes to go. Stockings mended, she progressed to dusting the furniture. An aromatic scent wafted through the kitchen, reminiscent of liquorice. The cake had risen with a golden brown top. I glanced at the clock- it is done! Informing Mrs Ackermann, she raced to the drawers, grabbing a mitt and placemat.

“Perfectly done- but wait for it to cool first.”

“Can’t we cut it now and eat it while it is warm?”

“What? No! You must wait for it to cool, otherwise the cake will crumble into pieces. Now, it’s just ten minutes.”

I groaned, remaining at the counter and staring at the finished product. Steaming hot, fragrant, cooked to an ideal crispness. Accompanied by a cup of tea, this was the cure for low spirits. Look- I made it (with some assistance)! Not quite pride, a feeling of accomplishment arose in me. What a trivial thing to admire, a cake. I reached to take a crumb, but remembering the keenness of Mrs Ackermann, drew back again. 

Betimes there were two plates, each bearing a thick golden brown slice of caraway seed cake. I tucked in, savouring each bite. Mrs Ackermann followed suit, demolishing it by the forkful with a shrill “hmm!” in between. She waved her arms about, then brought the other servants to have a taste. “Isn’t it so great! Miss Hayward is an exceptional baker!” They nodded in agreement. Soon every inch of the cake had been eaten, the maids dispersing to their quarters, the butlers reclining on their wicker chairs.

Bringing the used plate to Mrs Ackermann, we exchanged a yearning glance. She knew, and so did I, that I wasn’t permitted to mingle Downstairs. One undisclosed instance, no more. 

“Thank you, Mrs Ackermann, for having me here. I learnt a lot today.” The doorbell tinkled. 

“You’re very welcome, dearie, I wanted you to have fun. Now, Sir and Lady Ruscombe have returned. Goodbye- Go Upstairs now, and you were never here!”

A poem, dated 23rd March 1903:-

“Lady Helena’s Portrait”

A manor stood from times of yore,

Where darkness doth enshroud.

Souls stood inside nevermore,

And no creature called aloud.

But in one lone corner there hung,

A portrait once anew.

Of a lady fair and young,

Whose visage dread doth imbue.

For from her bosom did protrude,

A strike of lighting silver hued!

On a summer’s effulgent day,

The lady did sit down,

To be painted, a maid doth say,

In her prizèd crimson gown.

Not long did the paintbrush stir,

When tenebrous clouds passed in a blur,

Then a midsummer storm did occur.

All the while, the lady was still,

In her pose so demure.

Her eyes drew to the windowsill

Which then her death did ensure.

Summer’s passion grew a thunderbolt,

Descending from the Stygian vault,

Only at her heart the flash did halt!

Oh, what a ghastly commotion

Did unfold in that room!

As the lady flailed in staggering motion,

While the chamber fell in gloom.

No single trace of her did remain

Except the complet’d portrait of the lady slain.

How the picture came is unsure,

With finest paints and gilded frame.

But a striking likeness it bore,

To the lady of a forgotten name.

In the gold sepulchre she lays,

Departed from her summer days.

And in that lone corner she stands,

Beholding the souls who do pass by.

Residing in the old manor grand,

The lady Helena will forever lie.

-For my loveliest, dearest, most darling Calliope’s 14th birthday. Love, from Clara.

Dust swelled behind the motorcar rumbling up the hill. Insufferable heat pervaded. Coming up the bend, the scenery behind the gate unfolded. Vast fields of neglected yellow grass sprawled over the farm. An outhouse lay rusted and crumbling. No crows perched on the rotting branches. Patches of clouds were slowly vanishing from the sky. Civilisation was absent. Over the eminence, a still creek resided among overgrown brambles and reeds. Murky brown, the colour of slops spilled in the darkest recesses of the slums. I applied a handkerchief to my forehead. It was still a few hours to midday. To the left- death, to the right- death. Why had we come here at all?

So this was it. The sole property of Alice and I, inherited at our parents’ inauspicious death. Thank god Eustace was not here. I recollect that the visit was one month before Alice and Eustace’s wedding. My parents’ dying wish was to have their union. Yet they also spared us- “Let them have something,” my mother had said, “Or they shall be ensnared forever.”

Adjusting my black gloves, I stepped onto the gravelly path and surveyed the grounds. In the middle, a colossal farmhouse standing across the horizon broke the line of yellow grass. A towering structure imposed upon a field of decay, doomed to fall. Cracks meandered through the ash grey walls, and the foundations were warping and slowly sinking into the earth. The metal frame exposed where the roof tiles had fallen. Irregular gaping holes stood in place of windows. It had been derelict even before I was born. Left to crumble, Haywards End was a mere dollhouse worn for use. 

I trudged towards the building, leaving Alice to the business and negotiation. She held a stack of papers to some legal aid’s face, indicating the relevant points. There was no need for me anyway. Stepping down the hill, I observed the closer details of the structure. The farmhouse was curiously split in half; the left portion was painted in dull orange and green, a rotting double staircase leading to the second floor, the right half was an unfinished shell of plaster and red brick. A verandah joined the two sides together. I halted at the dirt-ridden cement, deciding on which side to enter. Looking through the archway on the right, I saw a single fireplace mounted onto the bland walls. Walking into the structure, I was surrounded by a two-storey box. Wooden planks and metal remnants lay on the floor. Detached pieces of scaffolding swung about. Another room was adjacent, separated by a wall with a rectangular opening. No stairs had been constructed. It was slightly narrower, without a fireplace, and equally empty. The glassless window frames ran from the ceiling to the floor, revealing a porch on the opposite end of the house. Several times I sneezed from the profusion of dust. Perhaps I should inspect the porch.

Exiting, I made way downhill. The facade on this end was taller, being at the base of the slope. A basement extending beyond the house formed the “verandah”, its poles and roof bending and buckling. Some small windows were placed at my eye level. I peeked through- they were far too tinted to see what was inside. Let those secrets remain, then. On this side, the verandah-area terminated at the finished portion. The first level of this residence was painted green, the second storey grey, and the left side orange, all weathered into a nonexistent shade. Again, the windows, albeit functional, were asymmetrical and dissimilar. 

Gazing upwards, I contemplated this forsaken facade. What had transpired? Only the elusive clues and the marks of age could tell. The widest breadths of imagination can furnish the empty rooms, restore the disintegrating walls, people the house, and in the mind create a befitting narrative. Definitive answers are void; the deteriorated charm lay in its ambiguity and enigma. No- I shall not touch it. Leave it standing, and let our visions sculpt the tarnished wreck into a grand house.

The outside stairs seemed to be the sole access for the second floor. It was white, but the paint had peeled and the wood had innumerable cracks. Tentatively, I placed my foot onto the bottom step. A tiny creak followed- safe, for the most part. The ascending was slow, being careful to put as little weight as possible. As long as nobody else used the stairs, there was no danger. I landed on a narrow square balcony overlooking the field. High into the sky, the sun radiated a blinding white, throwing its rays upon the withered grass. Greeting me was a battered door. I turned the knob; it resisted, then jerked open. 

Darkness and dust overcame my senses. I stood aside for the musty hurricane to settle. Dilapidated as the rest of the building, it was difficult to discern the purpose of this room. It occupied the entire level, having no partitions or separations. The walls were mounted with wooden panels which had fallen apart, the floor also being wooden and coming apart. Should I cross the threshold? From this position, the whole floor could be seen. Yet I was compelled to investigate the intricate details, so that I may finally understand this house. Careful, then, and refrain from excessive contact. Holding my breath, I padded into the mysterious room. 

Plunged into a dim box, I did not move, allowing my eyes to adjust first. Soon the shadows vacated, fled their refuge, leaving nothing behind, for they possessed nothing. Crevices, probably full of spiders or fungi, were the mere decorations for the walls. I was the only person to set foot inside. Now! a living soul has entered- the capacity of this room can be realised. Think, think, what do I see? Unconstrained and ample, giving plenty of room to move about. Bared walls; some things were removed. The wooden floorboards were rotted, but in their prime must have been polished in a rich colour. On the ceiling there was no light fixture. Candles then, suspended in mid-air, casting a gentle glow. There-- I was seeing it…

Boys and girls on a midsummer’s eve, the sky splattered with orange, purple, and pink, a fiddler striking a tune. They linked arms, hopping and gyrating, shrieking in laughter. The girls wear braids and cotton dresses, the boys scruffy, dirt plastered on their cheeks and unbuttoned shirts. Verdant fields and meadows unfurl themselves in the distance, the trees bearing robust flowers and fruits. Patter, patter, clap, clap, they stamp their feet in energetic rhythm. Sultry summer heat imbued a rustic joy amongst the children. Night approaches and the temperature rises, they continue unfazed, their laughter and cheer the more genuine. I reached out- oh, to be barefoot and clad in a print frock, young and detached from the burdens of the world. To wake up to the view of undulating hills, tread through the long grass and running streams, feel the wind lap against my face, watching the wild blooms sway. 

But that was the inconsequential musings of a fickle lady. The room will lie broken and unfixed, for Nature to reconquer the artificial growth, moss and lichen eating it away, until the whole structure topples, buried under the soil. 

I boarded the motorcar, watching Haywards End disappear behind the overgrown woods. 

Make what you will of these incongruent memories, Reader. You may disregard or analyse them, or sympathise with my cause. These are but a fabrication for the break in my narrative. We shall return to the present. 


End file.
